Legacy, Year 2 - Metamorphosis, an AU of the Dominion War
by nightbird47
Summary: Time is running out for the Jem'Hadar to come. When you have no way to leave, no matter how hard the reality, the gifts most charished and saved for your children are the dreams that will one day set them free. Directly follows year one, suggested it be read first.
1. Introduction

_A Pict Song_

_by Rudyard Kipling_

_from Puck of Pook's Hill_

_Rome never looks where she treads,  
__Always her heavy hooves fall  
__On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;  
__And Rome never heeds when we bawl.  
__Her sentries pass on - that is all,  
__And we gather behind them in hordes,  
__And plot to reconquer the Wall,  
__With only our tongues for our swords._

_We are the Little Folk - we!  
__Too little to love or to hate.  
__Leave us alone and you'll see  
__How fast we can drag down the Great!  
__We are the worm in the wood!  
__We are the rot in the root!  
__We are the germ in the blood!  
__We are the thorn in the foot!  
_

_Mistletoe killing an oak -  
__Rats gnawing cables in two -  
__Moths making holes in a cloak -  
__How they must love what they do!  
__Yes - and we Little Folk too,  
__We are as busy as they -  
__Working our works out of view -  
__Watch, and you'll see it some day!  
_

_No indeed! We are not strong,  
__But we know Peoples that are.  
__Yes, and we'll guide them along,  
__To smash and destroy you in War!  
__We shall be slaves just the same?  
__Yes, we have always been slaves,  
__But you - you shall die of the shame,  
__And then we shall dance on your graves!_

_We are the Little Folk, we, etc_

note: There is a tune to this written by Leslie Fish, folk and filk performer, which you can find by searching the title on youtube, which gives you the perfect feel for the story.

o0o

Ok, first a disclaimer. I don't own DS9, Sisko, Miles, his family, Bashir, Dax, Nog, Rom or any other character I used, nor do I own the station or the Dominion. But I'm sure glad someone does so we have such a nice playground to inspire us. Cyrus and its population minus those that fit the above are mine. And thank you, Paramount, for letting us play.

This is the second year of our story, and it's recommended that if you haven't read the first you should first. It's edited posting is complete. The name of the year is Innocence, now soon to end. To really appreciate where our abandoned crew have come to live you have to read the beginning.

That would be Legacy, Year 1-Innocence under DS9.

I hate begging, but some comments would be appreciated.

As we begin . . . .

At long last, (and half a lost manuscript) the next year. The time of innocence is long gone, and now they wait.

For most of a year, the survivors of Deep Space Nine have lived in the small settlement built for a research team which was there to test a new form of teraforming, one which would be quick and simple, with its creator hoping to be able to use it in the marginal places where it would save lives. But just as its first major test is about to happen, the Dominion begins its war against the Alpha quadrant. Refugees arrive, and with no place other than their cleared space to put them, their dream is dead.

But not quite. And as the colony is surrendered to the Dominion, the war at a stalemate, along with all who came, another war began, one between desperate hope that not all be lost, even if their technology has been pushed back several centuries, and the terrifying reality that such hope will be obliterated, in time, and those responsible made to pay.

For months the tension and fear has grown, as Sisko, now the colonies official Director, has tried to walk a careful balance, but failed. He has only one option left, to become the enemy. Even if it does not save them from the Vorta and his Jem'Hadar restoring order, then he still must do all he can to try. But he knows that nothing he does can change the reality that there is much they will be punished for, and some will not survive it.

But before that, he is ready to cross that line, no matter the cost, so some will.

The arc of this year of this story covers a little more than a year of time, but in its course will change everything about their new world, and in the end, for most, it will cease to be the place they are stranded, but will become home.

When you have no way to leave, and no where to go if you could, no matter how hard the reality, that is all that's left. When family is past a line so distant you'll never see them again, you find a new one. And when your children are born, and you cherish them, you understand that for them, the only reality is the one under their feet. The best gift you can give them is to let go and try to save the ideals so they will not forget how to dream, even if the world they make will never be your own.

This story follows the slow but persistent building of fear the first year, with the realization of the boots on the ground occupation which has always been waiting, and the even more intense but gradual slip into an even earlier society which comes after. And in the end, the knowledge that sometimes, the greatest enemy is still your own kind and your own history.

A note on research. Most of the elements in this occupation are classics, and oft repeated in human history, though it was roughly based on Eastern Europe in World War 2. Unfortunately, what follows is also very much a part of Earth history as well.

This year is dedicated to the Little Folk, as Kipling wrote of them, who know the value of quiet and stealth and can in time, working their works out of view, change everything.

Nightbird


	2. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 1

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 1

The meeting was mandatory, all department heads required to attend. In addition, the entire staff of Agricultural and Medical must be present. Sisko had ordered one of the empty storerooms to be set up for the meeting. There were no windows and the lighting was rather gloomy.

But then, so was the subject.

A short row of chairs had been placed on one side for the department heads of the unaffected departments to sit. Next to them were five chairs for the general representatives chosen by the residents. The other side of the room had space for the combined staff's of Medical and Ag, with two chairs in front of them for Tarlan and Willman to sit.

Blanchard was too ill to matter anymore. By some miracle he hadn't died, but Willman didn't give him long with the best of luck.

Sisko had noted the effect of his office on the station, raised above the rest. It stood for the power that Dukat had held, but it often worked the same for Sisko. He'd ordered his large chair and desk be placed on a platform so the people of Ag and Medical could be looked down upon by his imposing position.

He would sit on the same side as those department heads who were judged to have behaved.

He knew that Tarlan had tried very hard to find the hidden things. To the great surprise of his staff, he was running his department with as much devotion as he and Blanchard had put into their projects.

He'd interviewed each member of his staff. Sisko knew he still didn't trust them, but was taking a page from Willman's book and keeping a close watch on them. But then, it hadn't worked for Willman either.

Then there was Medical. Willman had left the box where it could be used without being observed. But only a few things had appeared, and the one instrument he and Bashir really wanted to find was still missing. Willman had concluded, over a very private dinner, that the things he'd destroyed were not the only stash.

Willman had suggested some of the harsh penalties Sisko was about to impose. They would apply to everyone in the department, not just the staff. Willman would be put under the same restrictions.

So would Tarlan. Since he was trying so hard, Sisko had already briefed him on the situation. Tarlan had stared at the baseball, saying very little. Sisko suspected that his guilt over he and Blanchard's test was the reason. Maybe Tarlan wanted someone to punish him.

If they couldn't stop the continued violations, the Jem'Hadar would certainly fulfill his wish.

The new rules reached further into everyone's lives than he wanted. But he'd asked for suggestions. Willman wanted a colony wide search, but Sisko instead chose to stage surprise raids of random places. Tarlan and Willman continued to keep their boxes available. But there would be more of them, too.

The searches would be truly random, each office area and section of the various Residential sections listed on a separate card. They were all put in a hopper. Immediately after breakfast, one a day would be chosen. That way no one could be warned.

Tarlan had wanted a more strict curfew, and Sisko agreed. They were allowed within the pathways of their homes in Residential in the day during curfew, but not the decks. There would be three periods of time allotted for meals when free movement was permitted, but anyone out of bounds without permission after that would be detained.

A couple of store rooms were ready for the detainees. He hoped they would not be needed.

Anyone caught with contraband in a search would be given to the enemy. He didn't want to have to do it, but nothing else would be acceptable to the Vorta.

He hadn't had much contact with his tormentor of late. But he didn't need it to know how close to disaster they were.

Medical and Agricultural would be under lock restrictions unless they were at meals or working. There was no stated time this would cease to apply. Their quarters and persons were subject to search at any time, as well as the hospital and all of the Ag storage and office areas.

Sisko knew he could never go back to the man he'd been, but if he managed to save them from Gallitep it would be worth it.

o0o

He waited until all of them were seated before he entered. Morris and Rafferson stood by the door, and had given each of them a copy of the new regulations as they arrived. He allowed them a little time to glance through the thin stack of papers. But he didn't want them to read them yet.

He was dressed in his best work clothes. Walking in, he didn't look at any of them, but stepped up to his desk, pushed back the chair, and sat.

Rafferson and Morris closed the door and stood against it. He'd kept his security people away. The two staffers were simply manning the door.

After giving them enough time to be worried, he stood. He stared across the room at the staffs and their department heads who were responsible for the meeting needing to be called.

He did not mince words. "You are here because there have been gross and dangerous violations of Dominion policy in regards to contraband. It is pointless to pretend that They do not know. But I can assure you *and* Them that I will take any steps I must to prevent any further such activities. Regardless of why these rules are in place, we must follow them. Those who refuse will be dealt with rather harshly."

He watched them. The department heads already knew what was coming. Most of the others didn't. But they were all looking at him now, waiting to hear how bad it would be.

He obliged. "There have been no known violations in the Supply Department, headed by Jadzia Dax, and Operations, headed by Miles O'Brien. When the general measures have been discussed, they are free to go."

Miles was dressed in a new shirt, the sleeves never rolled and the creases not yet set. He looked out of place. But most of all he was tired and very grim. Jadzia was dressed much the same, but he could tell by the way she sat that Curzon was keeping her company today. Her half-cynical, half-disinterested look was in singular contrast to the gloom and worry that filled the rest of the room.

He resumed his speech. "First, I will review the new policies that effect all members of this colony. While no violations have been found in the general population, I cannot take the chance on it being only luck and circumstance. As of today, the general curfew is expanded to cover daylight hours as well. Each family has three one hour periods to get their meals during the day. When these free movement periods are done, they must stay within the areas around their homes, bordered by the pathways. Once it is dark they must remain inside until sunrise. There will be no exceptions."

The civilians were stunned. This was aimed largely at them.

"Anyone found past allowed bounds during curfew will be detained for a week for the first offense. The second will bring detention for two weeks and the third a month. And so on. There will be no visitors allowed during the detention period."

The civilians sat a little straighter, taken by surprise. He decided to tell them the rest.

"The confinement will be alone. If there is an emergency, this can be excused, but the reason must be sufficient that it could not wait for release or detention will proceed."

He glanced at the assembled staff, noting their resignation. He assumed they were wondering what sort of measures would be taken against them if he was coming down so hard on those who had done nothing.

"If there are hidden things, a box will be located where it can be reached without being observed. It will not be within any one area, but can be used by everyone. I urge those who have hidden contraband to place it in this box before it is found. For it *will* be located."

He paused, looking at them all. The civilians were very still and tense. Each was responsible for the information from the meeting getting to everyone in their section of Residential. Miles looked glum and Jadzia calm and resigned.

Across the room, the staff was very nervous. Tarlan and Willman, having helped form the new rules, were sitting quietly.

He knew the rest would be the hardest. "I have the authority to order a colony wide search, but will not do that. Instead, each day after breakfast break, a location will be drawn. The five sections of Residential, the storage rooms, offices and other areas will be chosen at random. A search of the chosen area will be done immediately."

He let the surprise sink in. They'd never know if his security would descend on them that or some other day. He hoped it would prompt them to be rid of any contraband before it was too late.

"Rooms will be searched. Personal property will be checked and a scan of the walls will be performed by the special tricorder we have been allowed. Note that this is modified so all readings will go to the Dominion. In addition all persons will be subject to a mandatory scan with the same tricorder. Anyone found with contraband will be detained and turned over to the enemy. If contraband is found in a home, the occupants will be detained as well. If contraband is found in *any* of the five residential sections, all will be put under a strict indoor curfew for the next month."

The civilians were alarmed. The staff waiting for their turn were not even surprised, particularly the medical people.

He paused, specifically addressing the five representatives. "Your responsibility is to insure that everyone living within your area is fully aware of all rules and the implications of these rules." While he did not say it, it was also implied that they, personally as the equivalent of Senior Staff, would face consequences should anything be found in their section.

They stared at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted spiny ridges or fluted ears. But they understood. He didn't really care what they thought of him anymore. He was going to keep them alive, even if they feared and hated him for the effort.

They all nodded. He sat, giving everyone time to think about it.

"You may go now if you wish," he told those on his side of the room. None of them moved.

He stood, staring at the others.

"Mr. Tarlan, your department has proven to be the source of multiple violations. All staff and aides connected to your department are placed on strict lock restrictions. This includes you. When not at work, you'll have one half hour for each meal and be required to be within your homes if not working or eating. There is no set end to this condition. The box provided to place contraband will continue to be available, but unscheduled inspections of dwellings, warehouses, and offices will be conducted in the same manner as the daily ones. Anyone caught with contraband will be detained, under the same circumstances as stated before."

Tarlan showed no reaction. After all, it had been his idea. But his staff looked very wary.

"As there is much maintenance work to be done due to the bad weather, your staff and the rest will be required to work double shifts. If you do not have enough work for them in normal tasks, they'll be assigned other duties, such as snow clearance."

He could tell they were worried. It had been bitterly cold, and the snow was blocking walkways and threatening to flood several buildings where the warm air was making it melt. It would be a very miserable day. And while Tarlan had plenty to do, they didn't.

"Dr. Willman," he began, looking at his friend. "Your department has also proven to have multiple and gross violations. Your staff will be under very strict lock restrictions. They may take twenty minutes a meal, from the hospital commissary and otherwise will be inside their quarters or working. I understand most of your staff already works extra shifts, so I will not impose the second penalty."

Willman spoke. "I assume this includes myself."

"Yes. You may make some arrangement that will assure a doctor is always in the hospital. You may house yourself or Dr. Bashir in special restricted quarters there if it is required."

Willman nodded.

He studied the medical staff. They all looked exhausted. He wondered if they'd really notice. He had a special condition for them. Willman kept finding things in his box that hadn't been in the first one. More had been stashed, and he wanted to know where.

"All personal except Medical are dismissed."

Miles and Jadzia left first. The five luckless representatives waited by the door for their boxes of copies of the new rules. Then Tarlan stood and ordered his staff to follow.

All that remained was Willman and his staff.

"As of tonight, all power to your quarters will be cut off. Only cold water will be provided. There is only one act that will change that condition. It is believed that a source of contraband exists somewhere within the reach of the hospital. When the location of this has been provided and all the instruments destroyed, warm water will be provided. Power will be provided when all known instruments have been found." He stepped directly in front of them. Willman didn't look at him, but looked surprised. It was a little added push he'd come up with himself.

"Remember, there will be spot inspections in addition to taking your chances on the drawing. If anyone knows the location of these things, don't take them one at a time just to make it look like you're cooperating. If the things aren't found in two weeks, more restrictions will be imposed."

He turned away from them, heading towards the door. "You are dismissed. Those not working will be in your quarters in one half hour."

Behind him, Willman stood. "Up," he ordered them. "I remind you that if we don't have these things within two weeks, I will impose my own restrictions as well. And I remind you, there will be no personal time taken during work or meals. And as soon as you finish you'll go home, no dawdling, or I'll add a few other conditions."

"Get going," he ordered.

Sisko stood to the side, watching as his demoralized staff stumbled out. Bashir was limping more than normal. Willman stopped by the door, not looking at him. "Good idea," he said as he left.

With the room empty, Sisko sat in Willman's chair. The gloomy room reflected perfectly his own state of mind. There was no use pretending. Glebaroun had surprised him that morning, just as he was organizing his papers, by beaming into his little office. He'd taken a chair and read each paper in turn.

"I expect this to be carried out, just as you detail, or I will take matters into my own hands. If you catch anyone, you'll place them in a detention room bound and blindfolded. When you open the door, they will be gone. Do not expect any of them to return."

Sisko hated him. He hated himself almost as much anymore, but the Vorta always reminded him of how much. "I have every intention of doing so. It is my hope that this will help prevent all from being punished for the acts of a few."

"Your fire in that cave helped. But I cannot guarantee that you'll be left alone. That isn't entirely my decision. But I believe you may have saved your people. You may even be rewarded for your assistance and loyalty."

He wondered if after today, that was all that was left him.

o0o

Locked inside the transport taking them to an unknown destination, Megan had already lost track of time. She didn't know when, but the ship stopped and sailed on through space at unpredictable intervals. Mostly their little cage was left alone, the losers of a CA purge being the minority of the inmates, but she guessed the punishment was the same other places too. Along the way, more were added, all wearing a sarki brand and slash. The women had their hair roughly cut short and the men's faces were sore from whatever they had used to slow their beard growth. When they arrived, everyone would know what they were. All but a few were human, but all wore the sarki symbol and slash. Their new arrivals slunk into the cage and had said nothing to anyone. Those from Devon had divided mostly along different lines. Those like her, forced into CA tended to stick together, as did the higher ups later deposed, mostly wearing the slightly bewildered look of someone who woke up in the wrong room and didn't remember why.

She didn't care. She and Robbie and a few others who were used to each other kept together. They'd all been silver, back when such distinctions were made, except Robbie. The depth of her bitterness was different, a deep disappointment of herself for believing their lie. Most of the others like her still held some shred of hope that someone would change their mind and let them back in. Megan almost pitied them, but mostly she'd just quit feeling.

But the ship hadn't stopped at all for some time before this one, and Robbie was watching the door as if she anticipated it being opened. When the engines stopped, still at the off world port, someone had checked them again, making them stand this time. Even Megan was on edge now, their destination very near. Robbie had been told it was Bajor, and they wore Bajoran caste symbols, but they both knew it could have been a lie and assumed nothing.

There was no announcement when their pod was detached. With a jerk, the smaller ship docked and they began an unsteady, hard shaking decent into the atmosphere. She and Robbie were huddled close to the wall, hugging its curve the best they could. Falling to gravity, the ship lurched and bounced and was in free fall at intervals. They were glad there had been no breakfast now. Apparently sarki cargo didn't get the stabalizers real passengers did.

For they were just cargo now. A gloomy fog surrounding her, she looked at her hand, tracing the bar. Maybe sarki did get the smooth ride, she thought, but they only borrowed the symbol. They were nothing. Then, as the ship began to glide smoothly, almost floating, she shivered. It wasn't cold but they were in the atmosphere now, just flying like an atmospheric craft. They would probably land soon. For unknown weeks, she had sat in the cage shutting out the fear. Now it was filling her up. Robbie's bitter words kept repeating in her mind. To the calties who ran this new place, they would be the dregs who failed, and perhaps a reminder of how tentative their success to the ones who thought they'd won. To the ones who had been on the other side of that fence when she'd lived in CA fairytale land, they would never be anything but calties. She wished her miserable life had taken a different turn and she'd stayed on one of the dusty ruts on Devon in the dirt. At least it would be home.

Startled, everyone was tense and scared when there was a sudden jerk and the ship rolled a short distance before a sharp squeal and sudden stop.

Nobody moved. Then, as nothing happened, the pent up anticipation gave way to exhaustion. There was still no breakfast and it was beginning to feel like dinnertime as they sat, trapped inside. Megan was asleep, Robbie watching, when the corridor door opened and footsteps followed.

Awake, everyone watched, but none moved. Their guards were CA. The uniforms were familiar, but subtly different, made of a heavy woven fabric and several of them wore heavy coats. Their boots and coats bore traces of snow. They stood, staring at their lightly dressed charges, barely seeing them.

Their cell door was opened and the new shipment looked over. The guards had a loud conversation, using Standard. CA used nothing else. But Megan listened closely, hoping for information. There were words like "thieves" and "traitors", but they were looking towards the next section and their disgust wasn't aimed at the nothings in front of them. Robbie had a brief smirk on her face, and her eyes showed satisfaction. Megan wondered just how long it would be before all of them would wear slashes, and how deeply humiliating the process for the others would be before they had the final fall. The guards seemed to be looking forward to it and she was glad, for the moment at least, that they were beneath notice.

But there was a problem. Megan and the rest were lightly dressed and barefoot. It was icy cold outside, just done snowing, and they wanted to go home and be warm themselves but they'd have to get clothes for their cargo first. She tried to look as invisible as possible while they waited for someone to bring them.

The door shut and the lights dimmed. The cold was seeping in, but it wasn't bad yet. A cart with warm food was rolled to the door, more mush. But they were hungry and it was hot and they ate quickly as they were watched. After collecting the bowls, the crew pushed out the cart and for a time they were alone again.

With a rush, startling everyone, a stack of warmer clothes were tossed in, followed by a sack of thin, lined boots, capturing everyone's attention.

"Get dressed," said a disinterested voice from the door. "You're dressed when we're ready or you walk through the snow like that," he said as if it amused him. Or maybe, she thought, he was hoping if he had to be cold too. He would have to follow and his coat was already covered in snow.

He shut the door and walked away, the corridor now again sealed. They had already been exploring the pile, the sizes being sorted and the boots claimed. Megan and Robbie retreated while the newer people approached, Megan sliding on the boots as she sat by the wall, feeling the odd sensation of softness.

Robbie smirked again, slipping on the heavy work style clothes over the dirty ones she was wearing. "Now they can make us walk, I guess," she said as she wrapped herself in her blanket and slid to the matt.

The clothes were welcome, even inside. The air system was off and the cold was already penetrating and Megan dressed, wrapping the blanket around her and huddling close, hoping that they hurried.

They didn't get long, and several women were still struggling into slightly small clothes. But they hurried as soon as the sound of the corridor door opening filtered inside. The same guards, now all dusted with snow, moved to the cell door and it opened.

Forming a line as ordered, they put their blankets over their heads. The two women were near the end of the line. At the door, they each held out their hands, showing the marks, as the line snaked into the corridor. With the outside door open icy air was blowing inside and it was hard not to back away. But the guards were armed and across the way was a solid, probably warm building and they hurried despite the cold. A light wind blew the powdery snow under blankets and it stuck to hair and faces. The boots kept their feet dry, but it was so cold the feet were quickly numb. It was misty with the few lights and blowing flakes of snow as they approached a building labeled "Processing" in large letters, in Standard.

The door opened on its own and they all hurried in, even the guards and CA people in their heavy coats. Then the door closed and an inner one opened, and they were directed to enter, single file.

Megan's feet were so numb she couldn't feel the floor, and the snow stuck to clothes and body was melting into water. She shivered and hurried faster when the warmth of the inner building spilled into the double door room.

It wasn't just warm, it was hot. They were pointed to the side, warily assembling and shaking off blankets and holding them tight after the snow was gone.

The guards hesitated, waiting for instructions. A woman in CA grey came forward, looking them over and then turned to the guard. "These the next slashed ones?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, looking cold and tired.

"One more bunch?"

"The men from this group," he said. "The rest tested positive, so all that's up to medical."

There were shudders and looks of alarm and Megan remembered the shots. Maybe some hadn't taken. She didn't think about what happened to them.

"Stay, get warm," she said. We're going to just do the preliminaries today. We'll finish up tomorrow. When they're done get the others."

Megan was listening and remembering the summer day she'd been "processed" into CA. Fitting that it was a cold wet snowy day when it all ended. But the room was almost hot, the CA people in their heavy clothes looking uncomfortable. The guards stowed their guns and all their escorts took off their coats to dry, then disappeared through a door.

The woman turned her attention to them. She pointed at a bin. "Get undressed. Then that way," she said, pointing at a sign which said "Decontamination".

Megan was nervous. Most of the others hadn't seen the scars. She knew they would understand how they got there. But the outer garment was half-soaked and she was still cold. She stripped it off and hurriedly moved towards the machine, nearly the first in line.

It didn't take long. She followed the two women in front of her and stood in the small enclosure, putting on the eye cover. She could hear the whine and tingled all over. She was hoping for a shower but that did not materialize and she was sent to the next place, where another vat of clothes sat.

"Size?" asked the caltie waiting for her.

She answered and another caltie gave her a work uniform. She hurried into it. It was warmer than the others, looking much like the fabric of their uniforms. Between the hot room and the warm clothes, she wasn't shaking anymore.

"Shoes?" ask the woman, sounding tired.

She had heavy boots delivered as she sat on a chair, next to the desk. There were socks inside made of the same spongy fabric as the other work clothes they'd worn in the snow.

The woman waited until she was done.

She recorded, on a paper form, her name, her planet of origin, her age and sex and sizes. Then she left a whole section blank, not noticing the way Megan was watching so closely. She knew better but couldn't stop remembering how she had always been neat as this woman was, how she had taken care to be legible and make all the letters even. She realized she even missed the forms. It was a little contact with the world she had almost forgotten.

"I need your bracelet," she was told, and she held out her right hand. It was removed and a temporary tie put around her wrist with a number, the same as on her bracelet, which they clipped to the form.

She was done. It worried her there was no baggage and she'd already put her blanket in the wet bin. Then someone in light grey absentmindedly pointed her down a corridor as if she was daydreaming of some place else. Megan almost saw herself as if somehow she had passed their test.

At the end was a open space where others were waiting. Nobody spoke, but they were warm and had been treated almost normally. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Robbie was next to her now, and Darla had drifted near as well. A cart was pushed out with rolled up blankets and they were told to take one. It was too heavy to be just a blanket, and she realized the long nightmare of the transport was over.

They were stowed in a large holding cell, the floor with a matt and the temperature not quite so warm. But now that she was warm, the bulk was too hot. She slipped to the back, Robbie and now Darla near. They unrolled their blankets and found a small pillow as well.

The door shut on its own and the lights dimmed and before she fell asleep, relief and exhaustion taking over, she wondered how many more times the guards had to trounce through the snow before their day was over. Tomorrow the snow would still be there and they'd finish, whatever that meant. Tomorrow the suits who did the processing would be refreshed and perhaps not so disinterested. But it had mattered, that little bit of courtesy, with the snow wear and the time to finish putting on her boots and the pillows. She would try to remember that when the other sort was around and maybe would not learn to hate them quite so much.

o0o

Bashir shifted his balance, one crutch slipping a little on the snow. Lonnie was next to him, her heavy coat over her high boots, but she hadn't been allowed to change to warmer clothes. Sisko's security people had descended on them just as the first light was breaking in the dawn. So far, they'd escaped the scourge of daily searches, but not the random ones Willman decided on. But this was a surprise, coming so early when it was practically dark outside..

He hadn't had time to put on the brace, but he was able to take the crutches. The new brace couldn't be loosened to sleep in. They'd opened his door without knocking and shined a bright light in his eyes to wake him.

The power was still off. Someone had thought about it and turned in the other stash and they had hot water, but Willman and Sisko knew more was still missing.

He wasn't sure how long it had been. He'd worked late, and had had little sleep the night before while on hospital duty. Every other night he spent in the little locked room Willman had set up at the hospital. But most of the time he was up half the night.

The patients were sick from the cold, or minor injuries that became worse from falling, or a normally minor virus they'd brought with them from the station. There, it had been easy to treat. Here, it was much worse.

He'd not undressed, taking off his nice coat and putting on the old one, slipping off the brace and shoes and dropping them on the floor, then going to bed. His leg hurt terribly. But he was much too tired to worry about it.

The device was hidden away from both his quarters and the immediate hospital region. He might have used it if he'd had it but was grateful he hadn't had the chance now. He was so tired he'd probably have left it in his quarters.

He'd be in Dominion hands by the afternoon. He'd be dead by evening. No matter how much he hurt, he didn't want that.

Lonnie was shivering. He wished he could put his arm around her and try to warm her up, but they'd been told that no contact was permitted.

He didn't want to end up in detention so he let her shiver.

The men and women who interrupted their morning were busy. Half the quarters had been searched already, and little piles of boxes stood outside the doors. Nobody had explained why.

A group of them moved towards a small shed. It was used for snow clearing supplies, but from the sudden interest he gathered someone else had found a use for it as well.

One of the officers had been one of Odo's trusted deputies. He stood before his assembled prisoners. "Inside. Follow me."

They moved in a single file line through the side door of the hospital. It was warm. Even if Willman and the security people found some new misery to impose, at that moment he was just grateful for the heat.

A side door was opened and they were instructed to sit.

Lonnie collapsed against a wall. He knew better than to help her. Blankets were tossed to them, and she wrapped one around herself, pulling her knees close.

Some time went by. They were being watched at the door by the Bajoran, but he thought most of his fellow captives were more concerned with getting warm.

But when the lights came on, it was Willman standing in the door. He had a box. Bashir recognized it as the one he used to destroy contraband.

He sat it in front of them. Opening it, he pulled out a small instrument used to knit bones. "I understand why someone tried to hide this. In the world we live in, it would make a very big difference. But I will destroy it because if it isn't destroyed *we* will be the ones they put in a box. This was found in an outside shed. No one will be bound and sent to be taken by them today."

Willman put the device in the box and poured a vial of acid over it. Before he closed it, the fumes puffed out of the box. Then he stared at all of them. "I will not say how, but I know that other things are missing. If *all* of the rest isn't turned in, one or more of you will get caught. The rest will be punished in other ways."

He pulled a stack of papers from a small bag draped over his shoulder. "You've heard of the report that Director Sisko was allowed to receive on this Federation colony. This is the report. It goes into great detail about what was done to your former fellow citizens because they didn't cooperate. You'll note, they didn't try to shoot the Vorta, or blow up the Jem'Hadar. They refused to submit to the rules. *Some* of you know about that. But others don't. So, read and think. You have one half hour to read and consider this report. Feel free to discuss it. The door will be shut."

The door closed and Willman could be heard moving away.

Bashir picked up the paper, staring at the words.

Lonnie was reading it. He could see the terror in her eyes.

They had called themselves Talanora. Almost a thousand people, a mixture of species, had lived there. Now none did.

They'd been given the opportunity to cooperate. For a month only warnings had been issued. It was a supply base and there was plenty to eat. They couldn't starve them out unless they took the food.

After a month had gone by and nothing had been done, the Jem'Hadar appeared in great masses of troops. Everyone was pulled into a square, half the residents picked at random and forced to one end, next to buildings. Once they'd been assembled, all of them were executed. The remaining residents were forced to pick up the bodies and dispose of them.

The rest were forced to sort themselves into families. All the children were taken away. The report didn't say what happened to them. Those without partners, and the survivors of married couples where one was already dead were forced into a cage. Those remaining with both alive were ordered to stand in line. Randomly, victims were pulled from the line and shot, their mates added to the cage. Eventually, there was nothing but a pile of bodies. Those in the cage were searched and stripped of all personal possessions. They would be shipped to other places to serve as an example.

He wondered, if they didn't meet the same fate, would one of them come to Cyrus?

It wasn't long. None of those in the room wanted to talk.

He thought about the device. Half the time he couldn't even get to it. He had to be careful not to give himself away with his walk. Was it worth the blood it might cost?

He knew he wasn't the only one in the room with something to consider. But the difference was that Willman didn't suspect him anymore. If he put it in the box, Willman might assume it had been in the second stash. The ink stain was gone. If asked, he'd lie about it to Willman.

He didn't know why he cared what Willman thought. Since the crackdown, he'd gone back to being the cold, hard man he'd been before. But Bashir knew too much about the Dominion and their ways, and he understood the terrible fear that drove the man. The lookout hadn't been turned over, and he knew Willman was relieved about the suicide. But the shock of the virus had worn off and the stakes were higher. Now that people had felt secure enough to bring home their hidden things, the consequences would be much worse. They had no choice now. Sisko and Willman and the others would not hesitate to turn over anyone caught if it saved the rest.

He didn't like it, but knew they had to do to submit to the Vorta's authority now.

The gloom in the room was absolute. He stared at the door, wishing Willman would return and get it over.

Time passed. It was almost dreamlike, but he knew this was real.

Willman finally opened the door. They knew he was back from the footsteps. Bashir just wanted food and to get to work so he might have a chance to push the images out of his head.

Willman waited until they were looking at him. "All of you are now under detention. You'll be given the proper count of ration cubes for the week today. When you finish work you'll be locked inside until your next shift. At the end of the week, restrictions will be lifted for a day. You'll have one day to turn in what you have. After that the box disappears and other measures will be used. Just what those are depends on the degree of cooperation."

Bashir wondered how it could get worse. The one window didn't do much more than make his quarters the same murky grey of the barracks at Internment Camp 371. It wasn't helping him sleep. Would Willman cut off the hot water again? How long would they have to chew on ration cubes?

They followed Willman outside, and the first thing he noticed was the boxes were gone.

Everyone was told to line up and wait to be scanned. Willman was first in line. Bashir, moving slowly with the crutches, was near the end, standing in slushy snow. Lonnie had stayed near, following him out as if ready to catch him if he fell. Since they had been put on lock restriction he had not spoken to her unless it was work. But a quiet look or gesture could be snuck in now and again.

Willman stepped forward and submitted to the scan. Sisko's people were dressed warmly, covering their usual clothes, but the little patch they'd added that showed them as security was added to the coat, too now, that they had gained such a reputation.

"Those off duty may go to their quarters when released.. Those on duty wait behind me.

Those on duty will be notified when their next shifts start. I'm redoing the schedules so you will be working longer shifts but less often."

He was cold, and his leg throbbed from the lack of support. But he was grateful that his instrument was hidden far enough away that the search of the grounds would miss it. Eventually he'd get home and take more of Willman's medicine and maybe with sleep and blankets the pain would dull.

But the fear in everyone's eyes was that they would catch someone. The store room wasn't cleaned out, but that would not be traced to an individual. If Willman wanted to find someone he'd have had them scanned immediately after being removed. But here, it would lead to something worse. Nobody wanted to see someone taken away to be given to the Jem'Hadar. It would make the fears too real.

He shifted forward slowly, wishing he'd gotten closer to the front of the line. Lonnie was shivering badly and he hoped she could warm up once they let her go home. Their quarters got very cold despite the small heaters added which cycled on and off depending on the temperature. But they never made it warm.

Several people ahead looked very nervous. He watched them with worry, not wanting to see if there was something to be found.

Lonnie was ahead of him and she stood and was scanned. He watched as she joined the huddle formed behind Willman.

Willman sent a few of the staff inside, and things resumed.

He stood still, trying not to think of what it would feel like if there was something to find. A few times before he'd found his present hiding place he'd gone to bed and forgotten to stash his instrument. But this was not the first surprise inspection and he had made sure since.

When they were done, he carefully made his way to the knot of people, hoping Willman wouldn't keep them much longer. The rest of the line emptied and Willman turned to face them.

Nobody said anything. Nobody knew if Willman would let them.

He had a list of names, reading it off slowly. "Those of you on this list will begin the next shift. Go to your quarters and get ready. You will be released in a half hour. The remaining will stand by your doors. You will be notified when you next shift begins.

Willman paid no attention to him at all. He assumed the instrument which could take away his pain forever had not been found and Willman didn't expect to anymore. When the Jem'Hadar came it wouldn't matter much anymore anyway.

He hobbled to his door. The lock was new and there were two keys. One of the security men with patches had the new key. They opened the door and let him inside, then shut it. Both locks engaged. There was a light he'd not seen before, apparently with a battery. But the window had been covered. He picked up the dim light and looked to see what else had changed.

He had a large bottle of water sitting on the table, with a cup. A stack of ration cubes sat in a box next to it. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry. He assumed the water had been cut off entirely this time.

It got worse. The shelf with his things was empty. All his books and private treasures were gone, even Kukalaka. There was nothing to write on or with, and nothing to read..

So this was the difference between lock restrictions and detention. He dropped down on his bed, rubbing his throbbing leg.

This would be nothing compared to what They would do if he was caught. Could he stand the pain? Now, with the new restrictions, he didn't dare take a special trip to retrieve it. Even if he gave up the only way to give him a respite, would they take him anyway, since Willman's cover story before hadn't really worked. If he left it there and it was found would Willman find some new way to discipline him or would it be some next, worse step than this?

He was afraid of the pain, afraid of the way it invaded every moment of his life. What if when it built to unbearable he had a patient? What if it distracted him when he did not dare have that happen? He was doing surgery again. That could be a fatal moment here where every procedure was full of risk.

But he was more afraid of being caught. In any event, he had a whole week to think about it. When Willman suspended detention, he might find a way to get it from its hiding place and end a little of the nightmare.

Wrapping himself in blankets, the room only marginally warmer than outside, he took some of Willman's brew. It helped, mostly to relax the tight muscles, but when he slept he dreamed he'd had it with him and the tricorder was waiting. Each time his turn came he woke to the dingy light of his cage and wished somehow it was over.

o0o

Megan shook herself awake as the alarm dinged, the large room full of people sleeping on the thick mat and their own smaller ones were stirring, but she and the others didn't bother to get up. They were pulling on warm clothes and gathering their things to get ready for the day but Megan and their small group of outcasts sat hunkered down in their corner, waiting their turn. While the others lined up for breakfast, the outcasts could use the alcove to get ready and then, when everyone else had gotten in line, they could add themselves at the end. They had been allowed their allotted one mat per person, and watched to make sure they took no more. But the rest piled them up as needed.

The day before they'd finished with Processing. Guards had awakened them early, telling them to chose groups of ten. They would be disbursed among groups that way. She looked around at the sea of people and understood now. Here, just a few of them, they would never be allowed to belong. The men with them even less so, though they still didn't understand the reason they were being treated that way. Megan and her small family, including Robbie had joined with Darla and her little group of former med personal. The men had been waiting in the holding cell they'd been stored in while they parceled out the others. But they weren't CA losers. They weren't even civilians.

The two knots of scared people had each picked a corner to wait. Finally, one of the men had inched forward and made eye contact. She looked at him now, swallowed up in his blanket and mat, but grieving. He still didn't understand. He still was thinking of home and a world they had long ago allowed themselves to forget.

In the holding cell he'd finally gotten the nerve to ask the suspicious strangers. "Could someone tell us where we are? We got captured and they put us on the transport and nobody said anything about where we were going." He was looking at his hand, confused. "And what's this?"

*Captured?* she had wondered.

Robbie answered his questions. "Bajor, we're pretty sure. Those are caste brands. Below sarki." She kept staring and he crumpled a bit, but not from the look.

"No wonder they declare you dead a few months later if you go missing," he said quietly.

Megan had gotten curious. "Where were you captured?" she'd asked.

"Border skirmish, of course. There is a treaty, but both sides violate it." He'd moved closer, concentrating on Megan's apparently less intimidating eyes. "We tried to escape. When they stopped us we figured they'd just kill us."

Nobody had anything to say then, the guards having arrived to lead them out and finish the process.

She no longer wore a bracelet. They'd added an ID number with the Group they were with to her hand. Somewhere would be a file but she got it now. They were nothing. They didn't justify the trouble of keeping such records if you didn't need them. CA here was trusted to a far greater degree, but not with tag readers or their technology.

The worse part had been her things. Someone authorized had matched name and the label they'd used when shipping. She'd been called to a table, and told to remove everything from the bag. A woman and man picked through it, deciding if she had any need of it. The clothes she had no more right to wear were taken away carefully, the shoes and boots and niceties. She assumed these things may have been in short supply there. The books they had quickly checked for contraband, and found the drawings, but put them back. She got to keep her warm coat and heavy boots, and socks, and a sweater. They had left her worn but comfortable slippers. The rest was gone. The woman had been eyeing the dress he'd given her, the special blue one, with obvious interest. Megan wondered how long he'd last before he was passing through this place too.

She'd been returned the sack, now far less full and been told to wait with the others. The men had sacks too, and just looked stunned. When all twenty of them were assembled, they were ordered into a line. They showed their number, which was matched with a list. A bundle of clothes was thrown in the sacks with a number on it. They were told to remember that since it would not be looked up the next time. Numbly they just nodded. They'd been loaded on a ground transport with their bundles, passed through a couple of gates, and ended up here in this large, spongy floored storage bin.

The rest were done with the alcove now. Megan picked up the small bag they'd received that day, containing a little soap and a comb and a towel. She carried her clean work uniform as well. The rest were lining up for breakfast already. She watched as the men moved slowly, wary of getting in the others way. She got ready quickly, dressing, and returned to her matt. He was sitting there, just staring, either having hurried or not gone at all.

She was packing away her things, when he spoke. "Why do they hate you so much? What did you do?"

Most of the men had stuck together and said little and he seemed to be their leader. "I was told to fill out forms. I got to wear one of those uniforms they had on in Processing. Then my boss got involved in smuggling and they shot the guilty and deported all the rest, just in case they missed one of us. Thus the slash."

He looked at his hand. "We didn't do anything like that. We were just unlucky enough to get captured, then stupid enough to try to get away." He looked around the room, the rest taking their time to fill in the line. "My friend ran away rather than be forced into Starfleet."

She looked at him, now actively curious. "They don't do that," she said carefully.

"They took over half of the Federation," he said bitterly. "They do now."

"Once they figure out who you are and that you have news, you can work your way into an early meal." She hoped, at least. Any improvement for any of them would be good, even if it didn't apply to everyone. Darla and the med people could buy their way in too. She could only fill out forms and they didn't need anyone for that.

"Maybe," he said, looking up grimly. "I think if it was me and I was one of them I'd rather think that Starfleet was never going to give up and maybe someday . . . But at least I'd like to believe that there was something left to believe in, especially with one of these," he said, holding up his hand. "Once you cross the line," he mumbled, his voice drifting off as they stood, the others now all in line for their turn at the left overs.

"Then you find out how much it costs," she mumbled back and he looked at her, then hurried on to have a little better chance at a full bowl before everything slipped away.

o0o

Cheryl Jackson huddled with her children, Jeffrey staring at the men standing by his house. Calla was wrapped in several blankets and sleeping, but Cheryl was cold. The others in their section sat by the walkway as Sisko's goons went through everything.

She wished Carl was there. He was at work. Their neighbors hadn't said much before, and now, when the rest were sitting close, it had been made very plain that the Jackson family wasn't welcome.

Maybe they could have had a little consideration for the families of staff, who already had a hard enough time. Or maybe that would just make it worse.

The section next to hers was targeted a few days before, and the neighbors had stood by the walkway and gawked. Now it was their turn to be gawked at. At least they were almost done. Nobody had found anything. Their elected representative had scared everyone in his little section enough that she was sure they wouldn't.

He'd liked it too. Maybe they should ask *him* to join the staff and Carl could resign. But then, the neighbors wouldn't forget that soon.

Calla was stirring and started to cry. Jeffrey whined, "Mommy, I'm cold."

She took one of the blankets from Calla and told him to hold his sister. Then she wrapped both children with the blanket. She was still cold, but she could manage for a little while.

Sisko's people all wore nondescript work clothes. They looked like everybody else except for a small patch that indicated they were Security. She supposed that it was better than having the Jem'Hadar come. But right that moment it didn't feel all that different.

One of them approached with a marked tricorder. "Mrs. Jackson, I'll need you to stand over here," he said.

He scanned her. She tried to imagine what it would feel like if she *did* have something hidden. Secretly, she hoped that if there was anything they found it and the guilty paid. A few people had made everyone miserable. Calla was too young to go outside, and Jeffrey knew he wasn't allowed to go beyond home, but he liked going to the deck. The other children his age liked to play tag. With the snow, he'd have had fun playing with them.

But most of them lived in other sections. He didn't understand why he could only see them for a little while a day. He hadn't tried to sneak away, but he knew his blocks would be put away if he did.

He didn't have many toys, and he spent most of his time building and destroying things. Lately, he'd put more energy into smashing than building. She liked to think that there was some kind of protective bubble around him, but he hit his half-built creations too hard to believe that anymore.

"Can you hold the baby?" he asked as Jeffrey stared at the tricorder. "You can take the baby inside for that part, but I have to scan each of you individually."

Carl would say it was necessary. But he didn't have to spend the day being stared at by the neighbors. He'd mentioned a plan to build housing for staff alone, and she hoped it would the first project of the spring.

She took the baby. Jeffrey pretended it was a camera and posed. They trooped inside after the security man and she laid the baby on a chair. Calla wailed in protest at being sat down, but he didn't change expression.

"How long before you're done?" she ask wearily.

"One more house. Just stay inside until we leave."

He didn't look at them. She wondered if it was easier to betray his soul that way. Carl didn't talk about work and she pretended he wasn't their pawn so life could be reasonable peaceful. But she still wished he'd quit long before when he could.

He couldn't now. Even if Sisko permitted it, he'd wear a pin to the rest even if he'd given it up.

Calla needed to be changed. Jeffrey had gathered his scattered blocks and was hardly bothering to build anything before he kicked them across the floor. She had her children. They hadn't been separated in the two evacuations and all of them were alive. Calla, despite the circumstances of her birth, was prospering.

Things could be worse. She held to that thought while she cleaned up the mess they'd made. At least she had something to do to make the endless day go faster.

o0o

It was past midnight. Willy wasn't sure how long, but he and Lonnie had been working on the reports for hours. The rash of minor illness had spawned a pile of forms to file about each admission. He'd had Bashir stay at the hospital that night, and ask Lonnie to stay as well, so they might be done.

If they weren't, the next months drug shipments would be held back. That simply couldn't be allowed to happen. With his staff in detention, and the shifts all redone, he had fewer worries about anything illegal appearing, but until he'd let them have their chance, there was no way to tell if he'd have to keep up this act.

He was done with the old Willman. But the new one hadn't been quite dangerous enough. People had gotten too daring with their safety.

If anything in his entire life could be redone, he would have destroyed the things in the cave immediately. But then, there were others in at least one more stash he still would not have found.

Lonnie was half asleep. He didn't want mistakes made because she was too tired. "Why don't you take a nap," he suggested. "Or go home. You've done a lot. I can finish."

She picked up another paper. "I don't want to go home." She rubbed her eyes, then yawned. "Maybe if I work long enough I'll be too tired to notice what's missing."

"I don't expect you to have anything hidden," explained Willman. "But this applies to *everyone*. It has to."

"I know. Just tell me it comes back."

"When we get enough compliance. I suspect we will. The next step is . . . . " He paused. "I don't know the next step."

Lonnie rubbed her eyes again. "Everything's blurry. Maybe I could take a nap here."

"Use the staff room. I'll wake you in an hour or so," he said.

It was odd to feel like himself, but he did. She wasn't his official assistant and there was no chain of authority. It was just the two of them.

He stared at the papers. He'd probably need her again in an hour. He hoped Bashir was getting a chance to rest, since he'd worked the night before. He knew the medicine he had authorized didn't work all that well. Despite the chances he'd have to take, if that one instrument was there, he'd treat Bashir before it was destroyed. When it ended and the Jem'Hadar came, they'd take him for knowing about the contraband. Bashir had to be able to do the work of two men because there would be no one else to do it.

The staff's detention would end in two days. The box would be there for the next. He only hoped that somehow this last desperate act would work because there was nothing else to do but wait for the end.

o0o

Everyone was watching Shandra. She leaned back in her chair, hand on the enlarged belly, and smiled. "That was a good one, " she said.

Michael smiled too. He'd been escorting her back home each morning. Technically, when the food crew finished it was still curfew so she couldn't go on her own. Since it was cold and he didn't live far away, she'd invite him to stay for a little while.

The food crew was the only organized crew that still worked at night. Now and then some of the staff had to work late, but only occasionally. Everyone else was inside their homes, not daring to open the door, but Emery and his crew.

It was spooky. The quiet was enormous. Occasionally a storm would blow up and there would be the sound of wind, but most of the time it was so quiet each sound was like a shout. Night security still came by for their meals, but for most of the night the small crew crowded in the preparation area even when they were done.

There were no more night trips to Supply. All that had to be done during daylight and must be accounted for before they received it. Michael didn't have a lot to do, but the crew as a whole did. He finished his paperwork and spent the rest of the night helping with the food.

Shandra had been limited to sitting and mincing. Willman had verified that she only had one child, but had limited her to the lightest of duties. With a month to go, she could give birth at any time.

He stayed near. Safely on Earth, his daughter was playing with her friends and asking when her father would come home. With the official transfer, he hoped his wife had gotten over her grief and gone on. He knew he wouldn't be back. But he wanted his daughter to have a father.

There was a noise outside and everyone froze. Cautiously, he stepped into the serving area and to the door. He peeked out, but it was only the wind.

"Just the wind," he told them as he returned. Nobody knew if They would come quietly or with shouts and orders. They didn't joke anymore. The night was too quiet. The gloom had found its way inside their enclave.

But Shandra was sitting with her hand on her belly. "Are you okay?" ask one of the women.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Just a twitch."

But Michael sat next to her and took her hand. He knew it was more. Her husband had died on the Antelope, and her family was scattered, some safely behind the Line and others in places unknown since the evacuation. She had no one but the child inside her.

What kind of future would the child have here? What sort of use would the Dominion have for little babies? When they came, would they just take her away?

Michael couldn't put any of it into words. But a few tears were rolling down her cheeks as she held the child with her hand.

He put his arm around her. "I'll help you up. Why don't you get a little rest?"

Shandra let him support her as he took her to his office and sat her in his chair. She was crying more now. He waited. "Want me to go?" he asked.

She shook her head. He sat next to her, taking her hand. She moved their hands to her belly, and he could feel the child move inside her. He was grateful beyond words that his daughter would never know this place, that she would be free to enjoy a childhood without living in fear. This child would not but he would do all he could to make sure that there was never a doubt that he cherished both of them.

o0o

Tarlan had spent the whole day and half the night in his office, along with several hand picked of his aides. He'd interviewed all of them. He was certain some had been responsible for the things in the box, and highly suspected others. None of that group had shared the day with him in the warm office. They were doing their extra duty cleaning snow and digging mud off of pathways.

The ones he trusted didn't have to worry. A weight of paperwork had arrived, all necessary for the upcoming planting. He clung to the hope that if They had sent the forms there would be one.

He'd done his best to estimate what they'd need. There was no way to say for sure. He wanted to try the native plants as well. Now and then, when everyone needed a break, he'd slipped into his small indoor garden for a few of the small fruits he'd gotten to grow. Pressed and diluted in water, they made a light, sweet drink.

The others deserved it. He did not believe they had done anything wrong. But in this terrible world they would be punished the same as all the others.

He only took a small portion himself. He no more deserved it than those who were cleaning snow.

But they had finally finished. He called Security to escort his aides back home. Then he closed up his office and waited while he himself was escorted home.

They unlocked the door. He stumbled inside, ready to go to bed. Justin's door was open, and to his surprise Kay was still there.

She had a young daughter. She always made sure she got home at night. It was very odd.

She was leaning over Justin, hunched down with something in her hand. He knew medical devices had gone missing from Willman's discovered stash. He wondered if Kay had one.

She didn't hear him come in, preoccupied in whatever she was doing. But it occurred to him that Willman had expected Justin to have already died. Most of what made him a friend was already gone. Jaro felt lost between grief and impatience. Justin would never recover. His *friend* was already dead, thought his body hung on. But you couldn't mourn when he still drew breath. He couldn't light the candles to say good bye when the heart still beat.

He needed to say good bye. He needed to end that part of his life so he could make amends for what they'd done. If Justin was gone, he could do it in his name, for he knew Justin would never have considered it himself.

But Kay must be keeping him alive. He crept inside until he was just behind her. "Nurse," he said loudly. She jumped, and he caught a glimpse of metal slid into her pocket. "I'm sorry I startled you," he said apologetically. "But I was surprised that you hadn't returned to your daughter."

She stood up. He could tell there was something in her pocket. She was being careful not to draw attention to it. He didn't plan to turn her in, but he'd take and destroy it if she had been hiding it in his quarters.

Medical had too many searches. She wouldn't have been able to keep it there. His surprise was becoming anger.

But what if *she* knew about the tests? He had no idea how many suspected. He could not confront her.

"I had to stay. He wasn't doing so well and the night nurse wasn't trained enough to take care of him."

She was a good liar. He wondered if he she could tell how good he'd become at it. "How is he now?" he asked, making sure she followed him.

"He's doing a lot better." He led her closer to his room where he could corner her if necessary.

"That's unfortunate. My friend is already gone. It is unfair to him to force his body to live."

He had her caught between himself and the wall. She didn't react, but he grabbed her hand, staring hard into her eyes. Then he pulled out the device.

"It's keeping him alive. It's a little victory. I thought you'd appreciate that."

"And hiding it here, so you don't get caught when they search." He pressed her closer to the wall, staring at her. With the voice he'd used on his staff when he'd introduced the box, he said softly, "I will not have this here. As I no longer can trust you, I will not have *you* here either."

She tried to get away but he blocked her. She glared at him. "Traitor."

"Murderess. You think you'll be saving him for, what? He's already gone. Let his spirit fly free."

"He's alive."

"I'll keep this. It won't be reported so you won't impose more misery on your own staff, but privately I'll let Dr. Willman know I'm displeased with you. I'm sure he'll take it from there."

She glared at him, and he saw the same look of superiority he'd seen in the resistance leader who'd tried to teach him how to fight back. She was sure of her cause. She really didn't care who got in the way.

"Go ahead. Turn me in, I don't care. I'm not a collaborator."

She was staring at his pin. "No, your worse."

He put the device in his coat where it wouldn't show. He hefted her to the door, opening it and waiting for security. When the guard came, he shoved her forward. "She's to go back to the hospital. Please tell Dr. Willman that she isn't to return. I'll discuss it with him if he can come to my office tomorrow."

The guard nodded, perplexed. But he took a hold of her. Then she slipped and fell against Tarlan. The guard yanked her to her feet and shoved her ahead. This time, she was cooperating.

He hurried inside, cold despite the coat. He assumed Willman would send another night nurse for Justin and would wait. It wasn't until she had arrived and he shook the dust off his coat that he discovered the device was gone. She'd taken it back. He knew he should tell Willman, but he'd order a search and they'd find it. They would take her. Perhaps she deserved it, but then if she did, so did he.

He straightened his coat, and decided to tell Willman that she'd been neglecting her patient, and taking advantage of the quarters. She'd be in trouble, and perhaps Willman would restrict her enough she couldn't hurt herself.

It was the best he could do. And perhaps now Justin might find peace.

o0o

Willman was standing over him, wearing the doctor look. He hardly noticed it. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he kept still while the brace and his shoes were removed. His leg twitched from the strain. He was rolled on his back and his face fell into a grimace.

The patch of ice had been invisible, and very slick. He'd landed with his leg twisted underneath him, and hadn't been able to get up without help.

"I'll need to bind it. You didn't break anything but the sprain is very bad. You'll be staying here in bed for a few days."

Bashir forgot the pain for a moment. The device was still hidden. Tomorrow, they'd have a respite from restrictions and he was going to put it in the box. But now he'd be trapped in this bed, unable to get up. The box was going to disappear and he'd be trapped in his secret.

But Willman straightened his leg, the muscles twitching, and he wished he had it. He'd get something for pain now, and it would put him to sleep. But later it would be worse. He had to leave it alone. He didn't dare let them find it anywhere near him.

He already had a price on his head. This would doom him. He hated this life, but hadn't given up on it.

Willman strapped his legs in place, and injected the pain killer. Everything was foggy. He'd be asleep in a few minutes. Lost, he almost hoped he'd never wake up if it had to be in this nightmare.

o0o

Kay pushed the cart past the children's ward. Tarlan hadn't turned her in, but Willman had her cleaning floors all day and doing laundry a second shift. But she was alone with the patients a lot. The device fit in her coat, invisible with the other things she carried in her new duties. One of the children had been showing an irregular heartbeat. She'd taken care of it, like she did every time Mr. Blanchard nearly died.

She didn't mind her new job. Nobody was there to watch when she was working. After, she'd found a place to hide the device so it wouldn't be in her quarters. But she had no intention of putting it in Willman's box.

She couldn't use it then. Hiding things that you never intended to use never had made any sense to her. Why take the risk if you couldn't do anything about it.

That's why she liked Mr. Blanchard. He'd not capitulated. Maybe he held a position, and wore a pin, but he'd acted. She knew a lot about that. He'd talked in his delirium before he forgot about that too. She was sure he'd want to live, just to torment his "friend" who had turned against him in the end.

Now he'd die. But Tarlan had had more time to be reminded of the great and noble deed he'd done.

She kept the device far from her daughter. But if they caught her in one of Willman's raids and she was sent away, at least the child would grow up knowing she had a mother who didn't sell her soul.

o0o

Bashir had a private room. Willman wanted him to sleep so he could rest. He wasn't sleeping well, even with the medicine. But the box was gone now. It was late and the staff was taking advantage of the last of the day off restrictions by getting meals away from there.

They'd still be on restrictions the next day, but modified. Willman had found what he wanted. Both knew there was more, but he could tell how tired Willman was of being the enemy.

It wouldn't make much difference. They'd come and take who they wanted.

But it was very late when Willman came inside his room. He shut the door and sat on a small chair left there for visitors.

Normally, this room was for those who were near death. The family could share their last moments in private that way. It they came soon he thought it might be appropriate.

Bashir was awake. His leg had been splinted and wrapped, holding the twisted muscles in place while they healed. It hurt, but he couldn't move it and that helped.

Willman pulled something out of his pocket and his heart started pounding.

Willman had found the device that would make the pain disappear forever. He'd been promised. He might even find a way to tell the doctor about his own.

Then Willman sat it on his lap. "I'd hoped," he said, disappointed.

Bashir sat up a little, and could see what he meant. Someone had damaged it, taking the power pack from the unit. "Could you fix it?" he whispered.

"I tried. I suppose someone else might be able to but I can't risk it. I just wanted you to know I found it. I'll find something to help. It's too bad we destroyed that other device."

He wanted to tell Willman that they hadn't, but he knew having it was still too dangerous. It was better that he not know at all.

"Yes," he replied tersely, his leg hurting after moving.

"It won't be long," said Willman. "Sisko got a warning. They aren't buying it. I don't see any reason to keep up the searches."

Bashir almost wished he would. Maybe they'd find it. He wouldn't be tempted to use it again. "Everybody will be glad."

"We'll still have the drawing, but that's being scaled down to once a week. I want you to rest and make sure your feeling better before I release you. Just in case your needed."

In case Willman disappeared, he thought. He'd hated the man and shared a deep grief with him. Now, he hoped he was wrong.

"Just keep giving me that drink," he muttered, ready for his next dose.

Willman had brought the medicine. He poured a dose into Bashir's cup.

Willman tilted the cup, and he swallowed the bitter tasting brew. It worked better than the injections. It was something they'd extracted from a local plant in the fall, and it made him so calm it even drove away the nightmares.

Willman expected him to take over. He hoped he could do it. He'd sleep and let his leg heal for now.

The door shut, and he slid down a little more before he fell asleep.

A storm was coming, but he would float on the calm waters as long as he could. Maybe he could stand it when the clouds burst.

o0o

Yesterday, Michael had seen the first hint that the weather would finally warm. They'd had a cold rain that had fused most of the snow to ice, but the temperature in the morning as he took Shandra home was getting warmer. He'd brought her home early that night, in early labor. The hospital had been notified, and a nurse had come and checked. But she predicted it would be a few more hours. He'd stayed with Shandra, holding her hand, helping her breathing.

He'd done the same with his daughter. Somehow, the child inside her had become his own.

The nurse would be back in an hour. He'd left Shandra long enough to try to get help. She was in heavy labor. He didn't know all the details of childbirth, but had been there all the way through his daughters birth. Shandra was pushing now. It wouldn't be long. He hoped

the nurse came soon, but there was nobody in sight to send for her.

He tried to remember what the doctors had done. But he had no painkillers and nothing to help in case there was trouble.

He wanted the child to live. More than that, he wanted Shandra to make it. He didn't know if he could stand it if she died.

One woman almost had died from childbirth. Shandra had gotten very quiet and scared when they had talked about it.

She was screaming. He tried to help her breath, but he was too busy delivering her child.

The little girl slid out of her mother without fuss. He cleaned her nose and mouth, and felt her first breath. Cutting the cord, he wrapped her in a blanket and gave her to her mother.

In his whole life, he had never been so complete. Rumors had come down that a new warning had been given. There had been a few more things found, and everyone was terrified the night would bring the end.

But that morning, as the nurse came again, he was smiling. Tasha lay nestled in his arms, and her mother was sleeping. The room was a mess but he hadn't tried to fix it.

Shandra woke at the sound of the nurse's voice. "My daughter Tasha is beautiful," she said, sleepy and exhausted.

"Our daughter," he said to himself, very proud she'd chosen to name this child after his own.

He didn't know what would come tomorrow. But whatever did, now he had every reason to care if he lived or died.

end,Legacy,Year 2,Part 1,Chapter 1


	3. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 2

LEGACY

An Alternate History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 2

Bashir and the rest of the hospital staff were still under restrictions, but all the rules had been relaxed. The lights were back on. They had an hour to eat their meals, if they were lucky enough to have that much free time. Best, though, was that day the boxes had returned. He'd opened the small box with his personal things, taken out a couple of books and Kukalaka, and left the rest.

He was too tired to worry about the other things. But the books and Kukalaka helped things a little, just that they were there. He'd worked half the night on an emergency case and was half asleep.

He was so tired that he completely forgot the lump in his coat pocket. He didn't even change into the rumpled coat.

It was just over two weeks since the box had gone. He'd tried not to use the device. He had almost not retrieved it the one time he'd had the chance. But Willman's medicine didn't dim the pain enough after the injury. And he told himself that Willman had implied his consent anyway.

He always hid it in a little post along the way, never leaving it in his quarters. Everyone would be punished if it was discovered in the reduced searches, but he couldn't be singled out. Except that night. It was so cold and he was in such pain he really needed it.

He'd barely gotten to sleep when the door was yanked open and a bright light shone in his eyes.

Suddenly wide awake, he froze. Three Jem'Hadar had pushed their way into his quarters. Their rifles were pointing at him. He remembered stumbling half awake to his room and finding Kukalaka back again. He remembered pulling off shoes and brace and collapsing into the bed. He hadn't even changed from his good coat.

It was still in his pocket. Rising slowly, careful to not look as if he was stalling he ask himself desperately if he could he pull it out and lose it in the bedding. But they'd search. Outside he knew there would be no chance. Anywhere in his quarters it would be as if he had it in the pocket. His leg was numb and he could balance with the crutches, but if he stumbled? Could he find a way to lose it? Would they see? Would they look?

"Out," ordered the lead invader, growing impatient..

He didn't have his brace, and remembering Willman's raid, reached for his crutches. But instead he was hauled up by his coat and thrown out the door.

He landed in a patch of dirt outside. A passing thought distracted him. Willman wouldn't like to see his coat so dirty. He wanted Willman to be there to lecture him about it again.

He could feel the lump against the dirt. He'd been as tired before. How had he forgotten? It was in his side pocket. Trying to stand, he attempted to loose it in a tall stand of grass.

But the guard hauled him to his feet and dragged him to a small pen in the middle of the square and tossed him in.

It was freezing. Half the staff stood in stunned horror, watching the soldiers. Still flat on the ground, he watched as Lonnie was pushed inside.

She had her coat on over her old clothes, but was barefoot. She knelt down next to him, checking his leg. Next to his ear, she whispered, "I'll help you up, but you have push a little."

He tried. She half-pulled him to his knees and he forced himself up. With neither brace nor crutches, he couldn't stand for long. Linked with her, he stumbled to the others, huddled together for warmth.

The guards were watching very closely. He knew he had no chance of losing it. They'd be searched and find it. If he could lose it they might punish everyone.

He didn't want that moment to be Lonnie's last memory of him. Their relationship had been interrupted by Willman's restrictions, but now and then they'd managed a short conversation, or sometimes just a look. It helped on the long cold nights or when the shifts merged together.

The whispered words would be the last.

The small instrument, nestled in his pocket, felt as if every moment it grew in size and weight. Ever since the Jem'Hadar had grabbed him he'd been sure it must be obvious. Even if it wasn't they would find it among them, lost in the dirt. Would they simply shoot everyone instead? And they were watching so closely. He didn't dare even reach for it. That would just draw attention.

The thick socks he wore to soften the pinch of the brace helped against the cold, but his good leg was growing numb already. His bad leg, even numb, made it harder to balance. He didn't want to think of how cold Lonnie and the others in bare feet were, but could feel her little shivers.

Were they from the cold, or fear, or both?

One of the night staff, not yet off duty when they'd been taken, kept looking towards the hospital.

"They didn't even leave a nurse inside," she whispered. "They took Dr. Willman first, pushing him down towards the offices."

So Willman was gone. He'd not survive his knowledge of contraband and his not acting when he could have. Bashir was terribly afraid for Lonnie, knowing she'd be the only one left when they were searched.

One at a time, the rest of the staff and resident family were shoved inside the pen.

Then something happened that made all of them forget the cold.

The young nurse had been there since the colony was formed, but had only recently been promoted from being an aide. Her quarters faced the square with its pen and they could see everything.

She was so afraid she backed away from them, still inside her quarters. The head guard stared at her, pointing his rifle. "Leave now," he ordered.

Another tried to grab her and toss her out, but she slunk further away from them instead.

The guard fired. The other yanked her from where she'd fallen, and hauled her outside, hands clutching at her bloody middle.

Everyone in the pen froze. She stumbled a little forwards and started to fall, but was stopped and held up by the shoulder.

Bashir stared at them. Behind Lonnie, they couldn't tell. No one moved. In the cold air, their breathing was nervous and in little gasps. Everyone's worse nightmare was suddenly coming true and he wondered if it was quite real to any of them.

"That is all," said the soldier.

The First moved closer. He studied his prisoners.

"Do not resist. Or you will join her."

He made her stand. She was so stunned and in so much shock she wasn't looking at anything. But she was still.

The First aimed his rifle at the heart. Standing where they could all see clearly, he fired.

Blood soaked through her clothes as she fell. He kicked the body so she was face up, dead eyes staring at nothing and a puddle of blood trailing into the half-frozen ground.

He pulled out his bayonet, and drew a line of her blood across the dirt. Then he wiped it on her legs.

"Line up," he barked.

The dead woman's body lay at an angle. The line formed a vee shape with it. Her arm, fallen palm up, completed the triangle.

The pen was opened. Lonnie was frozen, staring in shock, but held on too tight for either of them to fall. He could see the Romulan they'd shot in front of him, and swallowed hard.

This time there would be no rescue, and was no way out. Lonnie and the others simply stared in numb horror.

"Forward, one at a time to be searched!"

Lonnie stumbled forward, getting into line. She supported his bad leg, and he managed to balance just enough. He would never see her again. He desperately did not want this to be her last memory.

Just about then, Glebaroun and a squad of Jem'Hadar appeared from the hospital. There was a container being carried by one of the Jem'Hadar. Every one glanced at it, briefly. But their attention was on the Vorta.

"Begin," he said.

Bashir, shifted in front of her, was fifth in line. Lonnie was behind him, letting him lean on her for support. She had let go of his hand but was holding out an arm for him to help steady himself.

A nurse was first. She stepped forward, careful not to step on the dead woman's arm, but getting blood on her shoes. She stopped on the bloody line.

Before they'd been trapped here, he'd shown Miles a new holoprogram of the Alamo he was getting. They would play the doomed defenders. But all Bashir could think of now was how they'd killed even the few that surrendered. Then, a while later, the Mexican's had massacred a whole troop of prisoners after promising their safety. Was it like this for the victims, standing and waiting for the end?

Two Jem'Hadar ran a scan over her. She passed. Stepping gingerly past the body, she almost ran back into the hospital as ordered.

Next was an orderly who stumbled forward, visibly shaking. He passed too, and gently stepped over the blood before he hurried after her.

After that came two more nurses, both so scared they could barely stop from shaking, but they passed and moved in slow motion towards the hospital.

Then it was his turn. The instrument felt huge and bulging in his pocket. He came forward nervously, taking his time so he didn't fall, standing on the line, hardly noticing the dead woman. He'd be joining her soon.

The Jem'Hadar began their scan and stopped.

"There is a reading," said the closest one.

He closed his eyes, hoping they would kill him outright and not let him bleed to death. He couldn't move. Balancing precariously without Lonnie's supporting arm he wished he could just fall and be done with it.

Glebaroun came up to him. He held a small instrument up to his identification pin.

Reading the identification clip on his coat, he said, slowly, "Dr. Bashir, remove the item carefully and drop it on the ground."

Bashir wished they'd shoot him before he fell on his own. But he couldn't make his hand move.

The rifle was raised, but past him, aimed randomly into the line.

His hand grew quick. He pulled the device from the pocket and watched as it landed on the ground, stuck in a puddle of blood.

How long were they going to wait? The rifle was raised and he was ready to die.

"Take him," said the Vorta. "Drag him if you have to. He's to be questioned."

If only he could run. He would make them shoot him. He would die quickly rather than slowly. But he couldn't even stand without wobbling. He had no chance of dying so easily.

His balance wavered and he fell, landing on the body. Blood covered his jacket and hands as he tried to catch himself. His leg was twisted too much, and he couldn't get up.

The guard grabbed him by the arm and yanked.

He was back on shaky feet, blood everywhere, but not his, not yet.

He even tried to walk, but fell a second time. He could see Lonnie now, staring in shock and horror. She'd turned almost white.

"Good bye," he whispered as the guards heavy boot landed in his ribs. Then they tied his hands behind his back and slipped something around his shoulders, then flipped him over with his arms trapped beneath him.

He was dragged along on his back, leg bouncing and hands going numb from the rope. His leg was still numb, but that was nothing to the tugging on his shoulders and the struggle to keep his head from dragging back. But he was being pulled along in sudden jerks, and one flipped him on his side.

His bad leg dragged directly in the dirt. Despite the night's treatment, the pain rushed back. The agony was too much, and he collapsed into black night.

o0o

Lonnie shivered, her feet losing all feeling and the numbness slowly inching up towards her knees. She was in a nightmare now, the horror of Jenny's death still not real and the reality of Them having finally come only starting to register. But there was something else, a calm she had never experienced, and a clarity she had never known. It was here. She almost welcomed that the terrifying fear of the unknown was over.

In front of her, she watched him. He was having trouble standing. Since she'd let go of his hand she had hoped he wouldn't fall.

Jenny had been a friend of sorts. Lonnie couldn't equate the bloody mess on the ground in front of her with the woman she'd been. Somehow, it was as if the blood would rush back inside and she'd stand up and say it wasn't real.

But she kept staring at Bashir. She knew he was afraid of the Jem'Hadar. He knew how ruthless they were. He was probably sure they'd take him this time.

He was too nervous. Maybe it was trying to stand without the brace. But he was so tense he hardly saw Jenny.

She knew he'd had something illegal. But Willman had destroyed it. He was one of the few Willman trusted in the end. It had to be the leg.

Then they stopped the scan and spoke of the reading. She could see him tense and freeze. They'd shot Jenny when she couldn't obey. They'd kill him too.

Maybe it would be better, she thought. What would they do to him if they let him live and took him instead? He was afraid of that, afraid of something he'd kept a secret from everyone but Them.

The rifle waved towards the line and for a second it was pointed at her. She didn't want to die. She wanted his hand to move. He'd be taken or shot anyway. But the others had been sent back to the hospital. She was all that was left. They needed her. She thought he looked back and noticed.

He reached into a pocket and held the device out from his side, then dropped it. The instrument hit the ground and landed in the blood. He was so still. She wondered if he was waiting to die.

When he fell she wanted them to shoot. But he was pulled up. Stumbling steps and he fell again. Could they not see that he could barely even stand? Then his hands were tied and a rope looped around him. She stared, unable to look away. He was lost now. Nobody could help him anymore.

Nobody could help her either. Willman was either dead or doomed. Bashir too. What was she to do alone?

The Vorta ordered him to be questioned. She wanted him to fall and the guards shoot him, but it was clear they would not dare.

She didn't want to look as they dragged him away. But she had to. He'd said good bye.

She was motioned to step forward. Her feet were so cold she couldn't feel anything and stepped on Jenny's arm. She almost fell herself, the blood was so slippery. But the two Jem'Hadar and their scanners cleared her, and she stumbled carefully on wobbly legs towards the only safety that existed anymore.

o0o

He was jarred back to conciseness when he was hit the ground with a small thud. Vaguely aware, he was hauled up and his identification tag scanned by a hypo-like device. One of the guards held him firmly from behind. The other yanked his coat away from his neck.

His head was forced to the side. Something resembling the tagging device used on them months ago was shoved into the large muscle between his right shoulder and the base of his neck. He flinched as it injected the identification tag. The Jem'Hadar let him go and he fell again.

If they were going to execute him why would they bother? Then he remembered the Vorta's words. He wasn't afraid of dying. But he was of being tortured.

He didn't even try to move. His leg was twisted again but he didn't care. He tried to imagine what they might do to him, or would they just use a machine? They had all the old memories stored somewhere already. They would know he didn't know much. Just enough to merit execution.

But they could use him. Would they make him betray Willman, or did they already know?

He watched as several others were tagged. He recognized several of the Ag people from the meeting Sisko had held. Then, squirming in her captors arms, he noticed Kay dropped with a hard thump on the ground.

She had her hands tied, but had been gagged as well. She was still struggling, but not with much effort since having the wind knocked out of her from the fall.

Willman had asked him to watch her. He was suspicious. But she was too careful. The look of vindication in her eyes wasn't so strong now, thought. She tried to kick one of the guards, and he kicked back, hitting her back and rolling her onto her stomach.

Her wrists were bleeding from her struggles. The guard put his foot at the back of her head, and pushed a little.

She froze. His foot was removed but she quit resisting.

He took out the tagging device, but didn't use it. Kay started squirming when he started near her. Bashir guessed they'd wait until she was under their full control.

She'd spent a lot of time with Blanchard, he thought. Who knows what he said in his delirium. It was easier to speculate at others fate than his own.

His feet were tied. The guard held Kay's down with his boot while he tied hers. Then their prisoners were picked up and shoved into a small transport.

The floor was hard and cold, a different cold than the half frozen ground he'd been standing on. Once the latch of the box was shut it was pitch dark. But it was warmer.

Willman had said that he'd destroy the bone knitter because if he didn't they'd go in the box instead. Was Willman in this dark, forbidding place too? It sounded large, and he could hear the small movements of others.

It lifted off. He closed his eyes and hoped that Lonnie knew enough to keep the rest alive.

The transport shifted to the side and he slid along the floor. His bound legs, already throbbing in agony, were too much and he let the pain take him away.

o0o

It was his dream, the one that had repeated but never finished so many times. And yet it was not. He could hear the echos of the boots and voices off the metal walls. He could feel the shape of the disruptor as it bit into his skin, and heard their questions and his petulant answers. The Romulan wore such a look of shock as they shot him, rising slowly in shock himself. He was slammed to the floor and could feel the hard metal as his head bounced. It was not a dream or a nightmare but a rerun of reality. This time, as always in the dream, Garak did not hide well enough. He was dragged out and tossed onto the floor, not moving from where he fell.

Bashir pushed against the guard as they shoved the Cardassian back to the ground when he started to sit up.

They wouldn't escape this time. If they lived at all, they'd die somewhere in this or a worse place. The rifle was aimed at Garak, but now it wasn't a disruptor but the Jem'Hadar's rifles. Abruptly, the rifle was fired, shock and pain in the Cardassians face. Blood poured unchecked from the wound and he knew that Garak would be left to die alone, bleeding out onto the floor.

They walked away. Garak lay unmoving and limp, a puddle growing on the hard grey floor. Then the last guard stepped back and shot him again, and Garak was dead. Blood was everywhere. The rifle was pointed at Bashir now, others at the Romulan woman. He waited for them to fire.

But instead, the other guard held his rifle backwards and it smashed it into Bashir's head.

He didn't know if they killed the woman. He had never seen that part of the dream.

But something was wrong. As always, it woke him. But he wasn't in his bed.

There was a cold metal floor under him. He was lying face down, hands tied behind his back, and couldn't move. He was blindfolded, and everything was absolutely black.

Was he in isolation? His side ached from the bruises, and his head pounded from the blow that had knocked him unconscious. His leg throbbed worse than both together.

He listened carefully, but didn't hear any sign of movement in the room. He guessed he was alone. He hoped he was alone.

He remembered the Jem'Hadar and his device.

Numbly, the reality came that this time, his dream had come true and now the real nightmare had begun.

o0o

It had been a long time. He didn't move, but listened for any sound. There was none. No one came, but with the blindfold he was sure they were watching. He could not move, everything going numb at a faint sound. A calm came over him, knowing that his inert body would not betray that he was awake. Time froze in an eternity which could have been forever or an instant. But he was exhausted. With nothing but small sounds of others around him, he eventually fell asleep.

The creaking sound of the door opening woke him. He listened to the thump of feet on the metal floor. It had started like this before. But then, he could see them. Blindfolded, he had no way to tell what they planned.

A surge of helpless fear overcame him. He didn't expect it, and couldn't banish it like in dreams.

Someone stopped near him, but not Jem'Hadar. A foot nudged him awake in case the door hadn't.

"Doctor, not only have you chosen to keep contraband, but you've proven to be an escaped prisoner as well. By the rules I should send you back to the prison from which you escaped. You'd find it is much different now. There are many more prisoners and they do not have the luxury of wandering the halls anymore. They're much too busy." He recognized the Vorta's voice. "It might be possible to convince me that I should take the trouble of appealing. You do have a certain use here as a doctor you would not there."

A small seed of hope lived, then faded. He could guess what it would cost him to save himself.

But just the same, he wondered if the cost was owed. Lonnie wasn't a doctor. She was a very good medtech, and knew enough for standard cases, but not the complicated ones. Even if it cost him something he would never find again, did he owe all of them in Medical and the rest of Cyrus for giving the Jem'Hadar a reason to come?

He didn't speak. The Vorta stood over him for a time, almost as if he expected an answer. But Bashir didn't have one for him quite yet.

"Consider the offer. It would be such a waste to send you back. Not even rudimentary attempts at medicine are tolerated there now. Not that you'd live long enough for it to matter."

Bashir listened as the footsteps faded and the door was slammed. It shook the floor and echoed across the small bay. Eventually, he'd be alone. Then the Vorta would be expecting an answer. He was merely making the suggestion this time.

At the camp had been rumors of things beyond the wall, things they should not have needed to do. But Deyos was curious. And this vorta wanted more than information. It was not going to be simple. There had been rumors that the pets, like Martok, and Deyos had hoped, like him, had memories of things they did not choose to remember. He still wondered. Lying on the hard, cold metal floor, he was afraid he might discover the answer.

He could stop them, now. All he had to do was agree to cooperate. But the nurse and all her blood filled his imagination. He could still smell it as it had dried on his clothes. He could not allow himself an easy way out. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The Vorta wanted his cooperation. If he wanted it enough, he'd keep asking. Maybe after they'd broken him enough he'd agree. But the blood would still be there, would never fade. He told himself that no matter what they did, he would rather die in whatever kind of hell they'd made at Internment camp 371 than betray the blood they'd spilled that day..

He only wished he could believe that.

o0o

James had spent the whole night painting. There was so little left to do. He'd filled in all the spaces in the frame with tiny flowers. In between creating his groups of flowers, he'd just sat and studied the colors, making sure each choice was perfect. It had to be. It all had to be perfect so he would never forget.

The painting was almost done. Just a few little spaces remained to be filled in. He didn't know what to do next.

Once he'd believed that when it was finished he'd be pulled forever into the park and would never have to leave. But when he looked out the window on the long days at work, so many were missing from it now. And the others were so quiet. Even many of the birds had flown away. The mocking bird hadn't sung for a long time, though he still sat in the trees and watched something off in the distance.

James understood now. The brilliant colors and joys of his park were just a memory, and a dream. He did not belong there. The grey and joyless world that held him prisoner would not let him go and drew him further inside it each day he filed and organized and the fear he could taste and smell and which surrounded him grew. He did not like it, and the fear had permeated everything in his life, even the place he wished he could live. But he belonged. None of these luckless people wanted to be there, but they pushed through each day knowing it might be the last and hoping it wasn't. They weren't wraiths anymore. The people inside his park were fading instead.

But he was still luckier than them. When the day ended and he escaped to his room, he could visit his park. Sometimes in dreams, where the world was full and vibrant as it had been before, and sometimes just in the presence of the portal which he had made. It was closed to him but he could remember everything and make it real for a time with the bright colors to remind him. It made the dark and somber days, now longer and more weary than before, something he could bear.

His routine was never the same anymore. Sometimes he was too tired and just slept, not even painting, and others, like the last, only had a few stolen hours before the day pulled him from the mist.

He was heavily asleep, lost in a story being told by his grandfather, when the door burst open. It didn't wake him enough to take much alarm, the park still very real. He sat up, trying to sort things out when he realized with a horrible start that the animal creatures were here, that the day had come.

They didn't give him a chance to get out of bed on his own, but hauled him violently out and to his feet. He stood, stunned and aware and disbelieving all at once. He knew the park wasn't real. The monsters holding him now hadn't been any more so than the park.

But his gaze was fixed on the painting, dominating most of the room. Two Jem'Hadar held him firmly, James unresisting while he stared with growing horror at his portal to dreams, the dreams that made living worth it. The Jem'Hadar had not touched it, just looked. His carefully stored clothes were dumped on the floor, the sheets torn off the bed. Then the mattress was tossed on top of both. There was little else but that and his cherished image, dominating the room. They were done with his things, and nothing else mattered as long as they stopped there.

He would not want to go on without it, and he did want to live.

Then two of the creatures approached the carefully laid out jars and brushes, and stopped before the park. He started to pull against his captors grip as the boxes of brushes were crushed by their weight as they stomped on the things he had so carefully arraigned and left in place.

They were still moving towards it, kicking the little jars and mixing plates aside, stepping on those they missed. He fought them now, and their grip tightened until he could not move, but he never took his eyes off the encounter. They were hurting him, but he did not feel it. When they stepped directly up to his beautiful place of dreams, he screamed, the pain inside him and the fear so real it was agony.

"No," a desperate and anguished scream. "Not the park. Don't take it away!"

The day would come when they would leave. He knew. He had *seen*. He'd drawn the square with the casaba trees shading the buildings, tall, well grown trees. But without his park he did not know how to stand the time they all must pass thru first.

For a moment the two Jem'Hadar paused in front of the delicate trees, looking at the people resounding with life, and for a second James had a burst of hope that they would see the magic. They stopped and studied it, their heads tilting as they examined the tones and delicate shapes. There was silence in the room. James had his eyes fixed on the painting and the Jem'Hadar, pulling as hard as he could to get free and push them back even if their grip hurt worse from his resistance.

Then James was caught in a moment of sudden clarity and absolute horror, watching the soldiers as they took a step back and nodded to each other. The butts of their rifles were raised high above the frame with its delicate designs and mingled colors. James struggled a with strength he didn't know existed as the rifles were smashed straight down.

Everything was in slow motion, sounds garbled and broken. He just froze. A figment of a old dream played in his head of the sky splitting open as the frame broke in the middle. The canvas tore in half first, the fabric ripping diagonally, as the frame fell right side first. He collapsed, limp and broken, as they smashed the rest with their feet, rendering all that mattered in life a splintered and torn heap which they kicked into the corner.

James screamed. There really weren't any words to the mournful wail. He kept screaming, growing louder as they tore him away, until one of the creatures hit him in the head and knocked him out.

o0o

Randy Morris yawned, staring at the forms that were piled like stair steps in front of him. He didn't like working at night. It was too spooky and quiet and alone. But he was behind, and Sisko was worried about it. He'd been sick the last week, and he didn't dare take the chance he wouldn't finish in time. So he was spending the night, lost in a sea of paperwork, with the promise of a whole day just to himself when he finished.

He planned to go to his quarters and sleep the whole day and have someone bring his meals, just get away from the sight of everything which controlled them for a small vacation. The last pile was almost done. All the reports due the next morning were sitting neatly stacked on Sisko's desk.

He was totally preoccupied by the thought of his free day when there were some noises outside. Tense but not alarmed, he sat the page he was working on down, putting the pen where it would stay put, when the door was shoved open and a squad of Jem'Hadar funneled inside.

Instantly wide awake, he backed away from his papers, not wanting them disturbed. He hurried out of the room as ordered, not even trying to get his coat in the ice cold morning.

o0o

Rafferson had been up late, and was sound asleep when the noise woke him. It was dark outside, and should have been very quiet. But someone was screaming. Then, abruptly, the sound stopped.

He didn't turn on the light. There was the sound of movement outside. He slipped out of bed, grabbing his coat and shoes. He was already wearing his sweater. Then he slid behind his window and tried to look outside.

He froze, then almost collapsed. One of the Ag people was standing absolutely still. Tom couldn't tell who it was, but the men near were all from Ag. His hands were tied behind him. There was a light shining in his face.

Tom stayed absolutely still, making no noise at all, but could not stop watching. Except for murky sounds of movement, it was an eery, horrible silence which drew him inside it.

Just beyond, most of the rest of the department were kneeling of the ground. Jem'Hadar guards were holding them at gun point. All of them were staring at the man standing before them.

Then he could hear the Vorta speaking even if he couldn't see him. "You have committed the most severe violations of any department. A cave was destroyed not long ago. It contained copies of your project machines, made with a hidden replicator. Not all of you knew of this but enough did. This one helped hide the things. Remember what you see. When you are ask what you know, keep in mind that many of you have come to have mates among those added by the refugees. This is the fate of them if you refuse to cooperate. You shall answer any and all questions about this project and any activities related to it, weather open or hidden and illegal. Or your friends and mates will meet this fate."

Rafferson watched in rapt, horrified fascination and could not move at all.

A pole had been set in the ground. Rafferson recognized him now, one of the main malcontents that had been moving around the hills for months. He was pale now, staring at the Jem'Hadar that tied his bound hands to a hook at the top of the pole.

His feet just touched the ground. The Jem'Hadar lowered their rifles. But each held a large, sharp bayonet.

"Now," said the Vorta.

Tom tried to close his eyes but they would not obey. Shock was slowly replacing fear.

The soldiers pointed the bayonets at the man, who was shaking now. They ripped through his shirt and into his shoulders, forcing the blades in deep. His face was agony, screaming an incoherent plea.

The blades were pulled down, slowly, ripping fabric as blood poured out. They sliced him open all the way into his abdomen. He had fainted. The bleeding was profuse, and his intestines began to push their way out of the cuts. They withdrew the bayonets, more blood flowing, and sliced across the stomach, organs sliding out in the rush of blood. He hung limply now, either dead or soon to be.

Tom dropped down from the window, his stomach churning and the image burned into his mind.

He couldn't move. The door flew open, a blood spattered Jem'Hadar pointing a rifle at him.

"Up, now!" he was ordered. Numb, sorting out his legs and managing to stand he didn't even remember stumbling out the door. It was only later that he saw all the blood he'd gotten on him as they marched him across the square and tied him, dumping him in a heap while they turned their attention once more to the unfortunates from Ag.

o0o

Morris sat on the warehouse floor, grateful they had put them inside. Huddled in a little ball, the Ag people had been dragged in, past the assembled staff of Supply and Operations, and most of Sisko's staff. They were in shock, hands bound behind their backs and were almost being dragged by their captors.

Afterwards, Randy had noticed the blood left on the floor. He couldn't help but stare at the trail they'd left. There hadn't been any blood when they'd shoved him inside the warehouse.

It wasn't empty. Half of it was full of supplies for spring. The Ag people were forced to stand, one at a time, and blindfolded. Then, when all were blinded, they slowly stood and were herded to the back door.

They didn't return. He looked around the warehouse, filled with the materials for the planting that Randy doubted would be. Or perhaps it would, but not the same as they'd planned.

He remembered the Telanora. They'd been given a chance, too. And now most of them were dead.

Two Jem'Hadar were dragging someone inside. He was hardly moving on his own, letting them pull him along. When he landed next to Randy, he discovered it was Tom.

He looked terrible. His face was pale and blank. He had blood all over his shoes and on his clothes. He didn't seem to respond to anything, lost in some personal waking nightmare.

Then they had just sat, waiting. He had no idea how long they'd been held or what would happen next. But Tom had suddenly started talking, without looking at anything in the room itself. "They hacked him apart," he said. Randy looked to where the Ag people had been. "I watched them. They dumped me in the square while they took them out. He's still there."

Randy shivered. Watching the way Rafferson was staring at some horror in his head, Morris was grateful he'd been working and they'd taken him so early.

Time dragged on as more people were brought in, lower level staff including the security people who worked for Sisko. They were dropped next to Morris and Rafferson. But by the way they stared and the blood he guessed they too had been given a demonstration. They had not been quite as unresponsive as Tom, but were still mostly just carried in. Randy was hungry and scared and thirsty. He did not dwell on what he had missed.

All of them had handled contraband. Anyone who had participated in Sisko's attempts to remove it was there except the top staff. All of them were missing.

He looked around for James but he wasn't there.

Tom stirred again, this time almost whispering. "I heard a scream. Then it stopped. I was dressed when they came, after they . . . ."

He looked away. Randy noticed he was crying.

Randy asked, softly, "Did you see James?"

"No. Just the Ag people and the blood."

He stared at the floor. Randy wondered if James was alive. If he'd hesitated or fought them, they would have killed him.

They sat, silent and haunted, while the room slowly emptied. Each clump of staff were ordered to stand and be scanned, and all of the Ops and Supply people had been led away.

All that remained were Sisko's staff and some of the security people. The Jem'Hadar were still watching but most of them had left. Those that hadn't were ready to shoot. He vaguely remembered the long, long day when the Vorta had come and Cyrus was officially theirs. He thought he was more weary this time. He should care or be afraid of what awaited them but somehow it didn't matter so much now as long as they got it over with.

Randy laid on his side, leaning against Tom, staring at the bloody shoes he wore, and napped. It had been a very long day and he couldn't stay awake. Tom didn't move. Some of the security people had blood spattered on their clothes as well.

He woke when Tom poked his arm. Two Jem'Hadar stood in front of them, each holding a scanning device.

"Up and in a line," bellowed the guard.

Randy noticed that Tom and the others were quick to comply. He wondered who else had been killed.

He and Tom were at the head of the line.

"Step forward here," he was ordered, and stood on the spot they'd pointed at.

He was scanned, and then pulled aside. He let them shove him against two guards without argument. He hadn't see the bodies, but the blood was enough to convince him to do exactly as he was told.

Tom slowly stepped forward, as if in a trance. He was scanned and shoved next to Randy.

A Jem'Hadar ordered them to follow.

Outside, the sun was going down. The day had already passed. But there was enough light to see what had quieted all the security staff.

Lying on his side. Sisko's Bajoran chief of security lay in a puddle of blood. His hands were still tied behind him, but there were deep cuts in his shoulders that showed bits of bone.

Randy hurried past. Tom paused, staring in avid fascination. Randy took his arm and dragged him along.

He didn't need to see anyone bludgeoned to death personally.

They passed the main offices, and stopped at a series of small storage rooms used for records. The guards stopped in front of one. The door was locked, but the guard opened it.

Tom and Randy were pushed inside and the door shut behind them. They could hear it lock.

There was a table and three cots. Each cot had a crumpled pillow and one folded blanket. Randy wished he'd had somehow managed to get his coat. A dim light made the room half-dark. There was neither water nor food.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The guards and their bloody corpses were a little distant. He stood and looked around the room, watching Tom as he moved as if still in his trance. Randy was profoundly grateful he hadn't seen anyone ripped open, but his mind was still holding the image of the Security Chief as a distant, horrid shadow.

Rafferson sat on one of the cots and stared at his shoes. Slowly, he pulled off the blood-stained boots and dropped them on the floor. He collapsed on the cot, pulling the blanket over him.

Morris was exhausted. He wrapped the blanket around himself and sat on the cot. "I think they took the Captain and the senior staff first. I didn't see any of them." He could hear the drag in his voice, and the delayed shock was settling in. But most of all he needed sleep. He didn't even care what he'd dream about.

Tom rolled himself into a ball. "I hope they shot James. I don't want to think of him all cut up."

Morris didn't either. He wished Tom would keep his private nightmare to himself. He stared at the grey light that filled the room. He was hungry, but wanted water more than food.

He'd always hated filling out reports. But if all he did the rest of his life was reports he'd be satisfied. Lying down, huddled on his side, he tried to think of mounds and mounds of reports and how long it would take to finish them. It was better than the alternative that Tom was lost in.

o0o

Tom was so tired it was hard to sit up. But he couldn't rest. Randy was sound asleep, but he hadn't seen them hack someone to death. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was the blood.

He got up, leaving off the bloody shoes. Being careful to make no noise, he explored the room.

There was a window, small and intended for ventilation, but it had been boarded over. The cover wasn't that tight. It would be easy to pull it off, and the window might be large enough to climb through.

But where would he go? The romantic notion of running to the hills to resist was useless. There was nothing to eat, and anyone going near would die long before they reached the first trail.

He didn't want to die the way the two men had. He'd rather sit in the dark room and hope that somehow they'd survive.

He laid down again, trying to forget how thirsty he was. His mouth felt all sticky and his lips were dry and he kept licking them.

It was so quiet. Before, the quiet had been reassuring. Now, it was a great emptiness he could not stand. His mind kept drifting, staring exhausted at the grey light. As long as there was no blood he didn't care how empty it was.

He didn't know when he finally fell asleep. Time had ceased to be measurable in the dark room.

But when the door was opened he woke with a start. There was a thud, something hitting the floor. They were both awake and out of bed the moment the door closed.

Randy got there first. "It's James," he said.

o0o

Half-dressed and icy cold, James was shivering even unconscious. Tom wrapped him in his warm coat, and they added his blanket as they laid James on his cot. There was a large knot on his head. He was wearing the shirt he wore when he painted, and no shoes. The socks were coated with dirt. But there was no blood. Tom was grateful for that. He couldn't imagine how James would handle the mangled bodies.

"I wish we had some water, " said Randy, running his finger over James' parched lips.

"We'll get some," muttered Tom. "Or we die. I don't think they'd work so hard to intimidate us if they wanted us dead."

"Get the light. We should check his eyes."

The light was self-powered. Tom held it a little above James' head while Morris opened an eye.

His eyes were normal. Both sighed in relief. Neither had the medical training to know what to do if they weren't.

"We should trade off watching until he wakes up," said Tom.

Randy rubbed his eyes. They were so dry. At first, he'd hoped for food, but now water was all he wanted. "I didn't sleep at all last night. Could you take the first shift?"

Tom picked up his own blanket, wrapping it around him. "Sure. If I can't stay awake I'll get you."

Randy crawled back into bed. Tom had moved his cot next to James' and was lying on his side.

He thought of paper. He imagined his hand with a pen. There was a two foot stack to be done. If he managed, somehow, to finish it everything would be all right.

o0o

Sisko closed his eyes and tried to sleep. The Jem'Hadar had taken him first, long before anyone else, and he'd been on the ship for hours. They'd locked him in a small, dark detention cell for an unknown amount of time. Then he'd been taken to see the Vorta.

Glebaroun had been sitting in what appeared to be an office. The decor was utilitarian, the exception being the chair bolted to the floor in front of the desk. He was motioned to sit. There were straps installed on the chair, but he was not bound.

He was lectured. It was almost surreal. Glebaroun was highly disappointed. He had hoped that Sisko would have been more decisive. He turned to the problems with his attitude and that of his staff. When he had first begun his career in Starfleet, he had had a number of such lectures. Apparently they hadn't helped, he thought, in grim amusement. But this was the Vorta who would determine, at least in part, what came of the lives of everyone on Cyrus. He kept his head down, showing none of the hatred that was running through his mind as he listened. All those audiences from the time before had taught him how.

Just a small spark of doubt was there, wondering if he'd done as the Vorta wished, if he'd been the man who could have cracked down on them and sold his soul forever, if it would have made a difference and the suffering that would be could have been avoided.

He was used to Glebaroun's audiences. This wasn't much different. But he wouldn't be going home after this one.

When the Vorta was done and Sisko had said all the proper phrases, he was told to rise. He walked out the door on his own and followed the Jem'Hadar to a small room.

He sat where he was instructed. "You will be tagged internally," explained the lead guard. "Remain still and it will be less painful."

He hadn't moved. It still stung, and his neck hurt where the tag had been injected. But he'd been locked in a larger, decently lit cell, and fed a plate of jambalaya.

Even there, it tasted good. He felt a little guilty for having eaten it.

There was nothing to do. He had been perpetually busy for such a long time it seemed very odd. Lying on the narrow bed, it was hard to find a comfortable place to lay without hurting his neck.

But nobody had touched him. If that was the worse that happened to him, he would count himself lucky. He doubted the others were going to be so fortunate.

He couldn't sleep, despite the exhaustion which ambushed him. He kept thinking about the Vorta's lecture. Glebaroun was disappointed, though he noted that Sisko had tried. He was assured that in time he'd go home. But the Vorta had a warning; he must do better in the future. His new staff would have to be supervised much more carefully.

He tried not to think what was going to happen to them. He did not expect to see Tarlan or Blanchard again, but hoped they would spare the others. He was especially concerned about Willman. If they knew how much he'd tried to tighten the rules earlier, perhaps they might spare him. Sisko thought to himself that he could tell them. He trusted Miles and Dax, and hoped that they at least would be spared. But he worried about everyone, especially those who had nothing to do with the violations but who would also pay the price.

Eventually, they'd send him back. He'd have a choice to be the man they expected or refuse. He already knew his answer. If they grew to hate him, if they saw him as an enemy he could not stop them, but he would not make anyone else have to stand in his shoes.

o0o

Mac almost slipped, the blood so thick and could feel as it was soaking into clothes and boots as he worked. His hesitation bought him a reminder from the Jem'Hadar behind him as he was poked, just enough to sting, by the tip of the bayonet. He forced away the memory of the way it had been used earlier in the day as he tried to lift the Bajorans feet and bend up his knees. The two other prisoners, both security, had either side of a blanket they were to slide under him. The bloody corpses were to be put together, wrapped for carrying. This was the last, but the only one he'd watched. He knew the man, or had known him. It was somehow impossible that the mangled body in his hands had belonged to him. He'd always valued his neatness and grooming. But at least there were no more bloody corpses to wrap. At least so far.

More maneuvering, and the blanket was tied around him. They lifted him and carried the soaked blanket to where they had left the others, waiting for instructions. They were all that was left. The prisoner transport had left hours before. Even the larger concentrations of Jem'Hadar were gone. He had tried so hard for some sort of tie to security and been denied it, except by the Vorta who had ordered him kept with them when the Bajoran was disemboweled and the rest terrorized.

Even those held on the surface had been locked up already. Mac hoped he would just be put into one of the storerooms, and not sent to the ship. Those sent off planet were not likely to return. But blood soaked and cold, they were ordered to kneel and their hands tied behind them. It was the middle of the night and the cold wind was blowing. The security man next to him collapsed. Duncan could see the outlines of the deck where Sarah and Gija were, locked inside home. All he could remember was the little girl's frightened face as the soldiers had pushed their way inside and pulled him away from his family before the sun had even come up.

Shivering, he just wanted today's ordeal over, however it ended. But the guard and Vorta returned and he looked them over, sniffing at them. The prisoners were not privy to his orders until the guards yanked them up and pointed them, stumbling on numb feet, to Tarlan's lab.

In the front, in a bin, they were to strip. Hands released, with the wind blowing in, he stripped off the bloody clothes and boots as quickly as he could. With the rifle this time, he was prodded back to the rear of the lab, where a clean up area had been created but was seldom used. He was ordered to stand still, and a hose attached to a faucet washed him down. Out of the wind, it wasn't as cold, and the water slowly warmed. When they were done, he could still smell the blood, but at least there was less of it.

As the next was shoved in, he was thrown a work outfit, and dressed. Then, barefoot and still damp, and the pungent smell of blood still reeking around him, he felt the unsettling pull of a Dominion transporter.

Materializing in a corridor with three Jem'Hadar waiting for him, and was pushed forward, stumbling a little from the disorientation. His walk ended at the end of the short corridor and the rising of a solid, heavy door. Inside was a small cell with more thick walls, and he tensed, backing away a little as he realized it was an isolation cell.

But a shove landed him on the floor, and he didn't move as the door slammed down and his world went to total darkness. And it was quiet, so quiet he thought he could hear his heart beating as he sunk against the walls. It wasn't cold but he was still shivering and the blood reek filled the close air.

He had been so alone until Sarah and now, lost in this dark, ominous place, he tried to hold on to her memory as he began to drown in the exhaustion and fear and resignation of the moment and hoped somewhere on the other side there would be a way out of the ordeal before the Monster was all that remained.

o0o

That day, Tasha was two weeks old. Michael had planned to make the day special for the food crew. But the Jem'Hadar had come and there was nothing to prepare.

He stared out the door, watching the sun rise. After taking him and the others housed in Residential to the warehouse, passing a bloody mess, they'd only been scanned and released back to their quarters. He'd been with Shandra, and they'd taken him back there.

She just held him. He hadn't seen either of the murders, but saw the blood that was left. The bodies were just red blobs, and he hadn't looked closely enough to see who it was.

He only hoped that would be all they'd kill. The Ag people had been taken away, and might not return. The senior staff was also missing and wouldn't be back. He wondered if they'd ask him to move up in position, if he could do it.

He didn't want to. He wanted to stay with Shandra and take care of Tasha. But he understood the rules. If he was told to work for them, he would be risking their lives if he didn't.

While he and the others returned to Residential were waiting outside, next to the bloody remains, the Vorta had spoken to them. He'd been quite civil. They would be returned home. They had responsibilities. Those who had witnessed the deaths had been warned that should they fail to cooperate, those they cared for would be removed. They had been left in the cold, the guards watching for some time while they waited and had ample time to see all the details of the mess left behind.

He would not take that chance. He knew he'd be punished as well, even if the promise was an empty one. Shandra had already lost enough. And Tasha needed a father.

But she was asleep. The baby had finally settled down after the day, her mother confined inside the house with no food or water. She'd only held him when they sent him back. But he guessed that she hadn't expected to ever see him again.

But what of those on Earth, safe and free? Would they ever know that those they left behind were being terrorized and shot and hacked to pieces? Would they care?

Little Tasha was stirring. He knew the Jem'Hadar would have to search this place too. Now that they were done with the rest, this day wouldn't be one trapped inside. He'd be there for his new little family. Somehow, even if he couldn't help the Tasha safe on Earth, he'd make sure her namesake was safe.

o0o

Megan put down the book, trying to find a way to lay her foot it hurt less. She'd wrapped her ankle the best she could, but didn't have much to do it with. She assumed no care was going to be provided. They were, after all, just slashies. They had too many in the compound so they didn't get overworked like their sarki overlords did at least, so she would probably get to hobble around the empty barn by herself until she could walk. Slashies didn't get to leave the compound, even if they had to work the others double shifts.

It was creepy being alone in their barn. Megan had finally started calling it that, realizing a barn was where you stored the livestock you worked. Even the sarki were really nothing more than bodies to them, though they lost no opportunity to enjoy any moment they could and feel a little more important with their own personal slaves. Slashies were given all the dirty work the others were not there to do in addition to those duties each group had in maintaining their barns.

She had books at least, but couldn't read that one, not after she found the pictures. Those shipped in from Devon had been stored in the camp, but nobody knew what happened to the children. Chele and Tanni's pictures were still tucked inside and all she could think of was how CA had torn them from her arms that first time. If they were alive, had they given up on anyone ever caring about them again?

Her main duty was to keep the main walkway inside clear of snow and ice, or in other seasons, mud. She had been assigned that duty, it being one of the most time consuming, by the group leader, a bully who took his cue from the guards outside. His own knew he would pay back for not following his rules, and the lesser in the corner didn't wish to be examples. And of course, it had already been noticed that she and Dan had arraigned their blankets in front of the others. He spoke for the men, whom they knew were not ex-calties but treated them like dirt anyway. She didn't mind staring back since there was little they could do worse than the part she still couldn't remember. Thus, she and Dan got the worse assignments.

But that morning, with rain and slush of the day before frozen beneath a layer of snow, she'd fallen and badly twisted her ankle. She'd been carried inside and dumped on her blankets and left, wrapping her foot the best she could and trying to sleep. In her new world, it was rare to ever be alone and it was a little unnerving to see the empty space so quiet. She and Dan, the warmth of another body the only one available on cold nights, had already combined their blankets, though nothing more. She missed his touch, pressed up against her, when she tried to nap. And busy the mind didn't have to think too much, but it drifted to places she would rather not in the quiet.

She was lying in covers, trying to rest her foot where it could relax, when the door opened and a doctor in CA blue entered, assuming she was sleeping..

"Wake it up," said someone in a hard, flat voice.

Then, to her astonishment, came a quick and compliant,"Yes, Sir," from a voice she already knew.

She had seen him before around the compound. He never seemed to be in the uniform, but the work type garb they had the warehouse workers wear. The 'winners' had been demoted, though she wasn't sure to what. But she was wondering if it wouldn't have really mattered much if she had married him in the end now. She wanted to ask if he had the children or if they'd been shipped somewhere far away, but there had never been a chance, and she wasn't sure he'd even answer.

Now, the rough attitude of the bluesuit, she suspected his relative position in his new world was roughly the same as hers in the barn.

But she didn't move, letting him 'wake' her.

"Doctor is here to look at your foot," he said, and she caught his eye.

She sat up, not looking at him again. But he had made eye contact and now waited nervously, watching the blue suited doctor closely.

"Bring it over here. And hurry up. I have five more to check," he snapped at his helper, who if there had been doubt before, was now clearly far beneath the uniform. A brief flash of anger crossed his eyes, but he covered it as he carefully carried her to the pile of mats near the door and sat her down with equal care. She thought she saw a little satisfaction in his eyes.

The CA doctor in his dark blue uniform never looked at her, just the injured foot, unwinding her makeshift bandage and throwing it on the floor as if it was distasteful to touch. He didn't bother to notice that it hurt when he twisted it around to see if it might be broken. But he confirmed a bad sprain and wrapped it slowly, instructing her to watch without looking at anything but her foot. She was to re-wrap it twice a day. He would excuse her for the next two days, and check again then.

The man who was supposed to rescue her from the purge and who had lost in his own way too stood waiting for orders and handing him what was needed. She noticed several small marks on his hand, and a number. She guessed CA wasn't quite what he had planned.

The doctor abruptly finished, snapping at him to get her a kit, and meet him at the next one.

"Yes, Sir," he said properly subserviently, but once the doctor had gone, the anger flashed

"Here, let me get you back to your mats," he said, and she noticed how naturally he used the terminology. He carried her carefully and made sure she was settled. Needing to support her foot, he commandeered three more matts and made a place to rest it, then several more blankets for a pad and to keep it warm. Carefully settling her, he turned to his kit, not looking at her. "He'll keep you off til you can walk. When the shipments hit the warehouse later in the month they'll need all the slashies they can find even if they have a surplus right now."

She stared at his hand and the marks. There was another version of the slash the new military unit used for their slaves. "Greson won't like that. We get only our appointed one," she said.

"He doesn't get to decide this time. I outrank him," he said. "He's the chief local bully. I'll check to see they are still here tomorrow and deal with it if they're not."

She was confused, but didn't ask. He liked that he did have authority over someone, thought. "What are the marks?" she asked.

He was getting out her kit, and filling the small box of supplies left with her as he talked, low, not looking at her. "Conscription and a military slash," he said. "They invented them here where they don't play by the rules."

She wondered if all of Devon's exiles had been slashed in one way or another. Military had a little more free movement, but not much. And she watched closely as he slipped things in and then out of the box and into his pocket. He was playing a very, very dangerous game, but she guessed there must be a good reason. Not appearing to have noticed, she shifted her foot a little. "What about the kids?"

His head was down, and he answered in a whisper. "Sick. But they'll get better now. They're slashed too but don't get medical care at that age. We live in something like this, and wife and I got them. We're trying."

She wanted to tell him to tell them she missed them, but then that was too risky. Or maybe they'd been passed around so much they didn't remember who she was anymore. But the doctor was walking back in, looking impatient now.

"Redo the wrap tonight," he said, louder handing here the kit. "Make sure you don't bandage it too tight."

"Get going. Or do I need to find somebody else?" snapped the doctor.

"No, Sir," he said, giving due humility. Compared to other jobs, she supposed it wasn't bad. And perhaps, if your kids were sick you swallowed your pride more easily, and risked what you wouldn't if the price wasn't worth it.

He hurried out, the doctor glaring at him. But he had what he wanted now, so there wouldn't be anything more to see.

With the room empty, she checked the kit on a hunch, finding a folded paper with several small pills hidden inside the bandages, 'for pain,' written on it.

So he hadn't forgotten her, and she realized he'd set up the mats to span two sleeping areas instead of just hers. She debated taking one, since she faced a long lonely day, but at least now knowing the children were with someone who cared for them she could read more of her book.

But the door opened again after two pages, this time Robbie with her hand bandaged. She sat next to Megan, shivering, but Megan pulled her into the warmth so she could warm up. "I saw someone I used to know from home," she said.

"So did I. He'll be punished tonight, probably some cold night duty. Doctor won't be using him again so don't count on a second conversation."

"He's slashed," said Megan, hoping Robbie was willing to explain. She knew those in the other sections and yet had to be careful what she said.

"See," she said, snuggling closer while her shivers started to lessen,"the Dominion had some bad epidemics which didn't get here. Mostly went to the dirt farms like Devon. That's what they call them. They test every shipment and if they carry it, well, I'm not sure what they do with them. Maybe don't want to know." Megan had wondered why so few of those from Devon still seemed to be around. "They have no use for the purge survivors, and automatically conscript them, which means they slash them too. But they have too many of us now and so they let the military grade work outside. Most of the rest of us are in the next compound out the gate down the way and I'm sure they'll move us there soon after they get the maximum humiliation."

Megan didn't know if she wanted to see the children or not. But she liked the idea of being away from the sarki and especially their bully. "How soon?" she asked.

"They have a new shipment coming in a few weeks," said Robbie. She sat up, looking at the blankets. "New one of blankets too. We need to snag the extras since we won't get more with the pile so high."

"He said he outranks Greson," Megan finally said, curiosity too much to wait.

"With the doctor involved. We can take all the mats and blankets when we move too. I'm supposed to stay and keep you off the foot. In the slashie compound we're all pretty much equal. They have the warehouses connected so we'll be real busy all spring and summer. They don't care if it's a big or little slash there. Only difference is the military have a commander. But they own the slave mark and the hostages too. They'll release any kids they get in the next shipment to us so you might end up with one, you and Dan," she said.

Megan was sleepy now, sleep being the best refuge from the thoughts that were in her head. She still missed Chele and Tanni, but it was best he had them now. That way, a small piece of her still hadn't yet been owned. But she noticed when Robbie set about emptying the pile of blankets and adding a few of the matts. Dan was holding her as they slept now, and she knew it wouldn't be long that there would be more, and eventually they too would claim hostages to good behavior.

o0o

Morris was watching. The first hint of dawn was filtering through he window if you looked at the right angle. It wasn't enough to light the room, but at least they could tell day from night.

James opened his eyes. Randy squeezed the young man's hand, but woke Tom before trying to see how he was. Tom pulled his blanket around him and sat on the cot facing James as he tried to lift his head.

o0o

James woke in a haze of pain. His head pounded. He was afraid he might be sick if he sat up. He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there, but he knew the voices that talked to him in the blurry mist.

"Easy now," said Morris, who had something soft and dark on his eyes. "You probably have a concussion and you've been out a whole day" Just stay still for now."

James pushed it aside. He tried to see through the blurry shapes, but gave up and closed his eyes. Morris put it back. The darkness helped the headache. "I don't remember how this happened," he whispered in what sounded like a thundering roar.

"We're in detention. That's all I know." Rafferson spoke in a monotone.

James had a fleeting glimpse of horror but had no idea what it was. "My paints . . . . " he said.

"They aren't here. We're all that's here. They cleared out all the personal stuff. Look, you need to rest, but you need to stay awake for now. Why don't you tell me about that painting of yours?" continued Rafferson.

James told him about the masterpiece in his room, describing each of the details he had lovingly added to it over the year since he had started. He paused now and then, stopping and almost falling asleep. But Rafferson always woke him.

He couldn't think of anything to say. Rafferson was yawning, and Morris replaced him. "Why don't you tell me about the real park you painted. I guess it was pretty important if your family always went there."

James was very tired and wanted to sleep. His head hurt too much to talk. But most of all he didn't want to remember. That was gone. He'd never go back there. "It was pretty. I don't remember much. Maybe I remember what I wanted it to look like."

Vaguely James knew he should not sleep, but he was so tired and Rafferson was out and Morris was barely awake. And he tried to think of something to say, but neither the words or the images would come.

He just mumbled and didn't worry what he'd said. All he knew was emptiness and a deep broken place where dreams had been.

Then, later, the cloth was removed. Morris looked barely awake himself and Rafferson was moving around. They checked his eyes and replaced the cloth.

Morris stood, and James could hear him pacing.

"Tom, he's still okay. Do you think he could sleep now?"

Rafferson sounded sleepy. "Yeah, maybe they'll be some water when we wake up."

James was very thirsty. But he guessed they would have given him some if they'd had any.

He could hear Morris move the cot. "Go to sleep. I guess they'll wake us up when they want."

James closed his eyes, and fell into a deep, peaceful dream. His grandfather was waiting. The park was empty this time, as if a storm had torn up the trees.

'I waited for you,' said his grandfather. 'You're not alone.'

They walked down the pathways from the tables, past the creek and into the trees. The birds sat silent, just watching. 'Don't leave,' he told his grandfather.

'I'll always stay. They can't drive your old gramps away.' He hugged James and he was a boy again. They were fishing. Gramps liked to fish, though Jimmy had always wanted to toss rocks in the lake.

Safe and sound in a world where life would always stay the same, James slept in peace.

end, Legacy,Year 2,Part 1,Chapter 2


	4. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 3

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two – Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 3

Carl Jackson hugged his son, sound asleep on his lap. It was almost noon. The Jem'Hadar had forced them to the upper deck not long after dawn. He had made sure his family was dressed for the cold morning when they went to sleep. Yesterday he'd been taken and spent the day in their custody. He assumed that they'd come for the rest today.

Calla was still nursing part of the time, and Jeffrey liked a late snack. Thought it was officially against the rules, Cheryl kept a little food in the house, saved from dinner, for him to help him sleep. They'd split the food when he was returned. A glass of water was left on a low table for the children, who couldn't reach the sink and he had insisted on that being drunk. Water to Residential had been shut off yesterday morning. The Jem'Hadar had banged on every door and woke them, but except for staff like himself, had simply ordered them to remain inside under military curfew. Nothing had been said about water, but after his day, seeing the bloody messes they'd left he would take no chances on breaking a rule.

Jeffrey complained he was hungry. Calla wanted a drink of water. Cheryl didn't complain, but he could tell she was suffering, Calla nursing her dehydrated mother. But how could he tell his children that the soldiers wouldn't let them have any of those things, and how could he explain that he didn't know when they'd change their minds?

The cold morning had given way to a much warmer afternoon. The breeze which had kept it tolerable with them dressed so well had disappeared. The sun was hot now. Jeffrey kept pointing at the creek behind them, but Carl held him too tight for him to run.

He and Cheryl put up with it. His mouth was dry and lips were cracking. He felt a little dizzy and light headed. It was very hard not to stare at the water himself, but he wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

The food had been welcome, but it was salty. It had just made them a little more thirsty than before. He hoped, once they'd searched everywhere, that they'd be allowed to get water.

Jeffrey kept complaining that his stomach hurt. Carl didn't let on about the small but growing cramping he was suffering. Cheryl hadn't said anything at all. But she was still nursing Calla. He knew she was worried about losing her milk.

Each of the five groups the Residential section had been divided into were sitting together. The Jem'Hadar had marched them up to the deck in groups. He knew his neighbors were reluctant to have anything to do with them, but today they were sitting very close.

They wouldn't take a chance on the Jem'Hadar noticing them.

Carl remembered the mess they'd left the first time they'd searched his things. But now, sitting in the hot sun with his children growing dehydrated, he didn't care what they did as long as they could go back inside soon.

He had seen the bodies they'd left yesterday. He kept looking at Jeffrey, thinking of the children of Telanora. Were they dead? Had they been used by the Dominion to experiment? Were they lucky that they had been spared?

Did the adult survivors keep going with dreams of finding their lost children?

Cheryl was holding Calla, trying to shelter her from the sun, and keep her still. But she was an active child, and after squirming and twisting hadn't gotten her out of her mother's grip, she'd settled on crying out her frustration. But the sun was warm and she finally wore herself out.

Carl was afraid they'd quiet her their own way. He couldn't hide the relief when she finally went to sleep. Cheryl was leaning against him, half asleep herself.

He was grateful they were in the middle, out of close view of the Jem'Hadar. Those near the front were being closely watched. Near the back they were just a mass of bodies.

Yesterday had been horrible, not knowing if he'd ever see his family again. But today was worse, knowing what they'd done in the square. He didn't want his children to have to see anything so terrible. But he knew if anything was hidden in this section that they'd execute the ones they caught, probably everyone in the household. Ag hadn't all ended up dead because they had questions to answer. These people had no such value.

They hadn't touched the homes yet. They'd been setting up a blue line of pickets along the edges of the section and scanning everywhere outside their homes. There were a lot of Jem'Hadar but they were working very slowly and carefully. Carl knew how much Cheryl had hated Sisko's raids, but guessed she was grateful for it now.

And the long wait in the cold and now hot sun would insure the people they held were tired and hot and miserable, too. He remembered the day They had claimed the planet, and that long, long day. He only wished it would be as simple this time as having to listen to a long speech.

Cheryl was asleep. He nudged her and she woke. The children had it a little easier if they slept, but he and Cheryl would keep watch.

If there was anything in his power to prevent it, they would not hurt his children no matter what it cost.

o0o

Michael Emery sat very still, the baby cradled in his arms. Shandra was curled next to him, not well at all. She was dizzy, holding her stomach and had refused to nurse the baby. Little Tasha was too young to wait. Her thin cry was too loud. He'd let her suck on his finger until she fell asleep.

Shandra stirred, holding her blanket around her. "I'll try again," she said, but she looked flushed and exhausted. He gave her the baby, and she leaned against him while she nursed.

He was getting dizzy too. There had been a little water but he'd made sure she had most of it. He didn't want anything to happen to Tasha.

They were prepared for the Jem'Hadar's arrival that morning. But many were not. His own quarters were further back, and he would not have been sitting so much in view. But hers were near the pathway to the offices, and they'd been moved out first.

The Jem'Hadar were watching too closely. Shandra wasn't able to keep the baby quiet and he was afraid.

But he watched as they scanned every inch of ground. Sisko had staged so many searches that anyone still hiding contraband was very lucky-or in this case very unlucky. Nobody had liked the searches, but the first few days a lot of things had been found in the box that weren't medical or agricultural instruments.

How many lives had Sisko saved by his little reign of terror? Michael knew that should things be found in that section they'd be treated the same as the rest. Or perhaps they'd be locked inside their little huts anyway.

But the line of blue posts they were making was done, and the scanning was almost finished. He nudged Shandra, making sure she was awake.

She was exhausted and thirsty and he was ready to take the baby and help her up if he had to. He already knew the Jem'Hadar had no patience.

She sat up, rubbing dry eyes. But she was wide awake as the Jem'Hadar approached, holding Tasha protectively under her arm.

The Jem'Hadar stopped suddenly, directly in front of them. "Up," ordered the leader. They stood, some less steady than others. The other sections were still sitting. He wondered if it would be better to know what they were going to do, or get it over with sooner.

He held onto Shandra as they were pushed back to the lower deck and in front of their little houses again. Stopping, the Jem'Hadar surrounded them.

"Line up by families."

A cold wave of horror passed through Michael, remembering the report on Talanora. They'd lined them up that way, then ripped them apart. They'd slaughtered and kidnaped and tormented them. He stood in front of Shandra, holding the baby shielded in her arms, but knowing there was nothing he could do. Had they made some terrible discovery none watching could tell? He could not bear the thought of losing either of them.

Tense and alert, Shandra stayed close to him. He thought she was using him to help keep her balance. She was too dehydrated and he was afraid she wouldn't be able to feed the baby.

But the Jem'Hadar were simply scanning them. Each had to stand a little in front, and they keyed ID tags first.

When he was keyed they stopped him with a rifle. "You do not live in this section."

"She does."

He spoke calmly. He took Shandra's hand. "And my daughter."

The soldier looked away towards the Jem'Hadar in command, but it was holding up things and he let him go. Shandra was keyed, the baby too small to be tagged, and all three were scanned.

"In front of your dwelling," ordered the next Jem'Hadar. Michael knew they had ranks but he had no way of telling what they were. He just obeyed all of them.

He had gotten caught in one of the daily searches, and it was odd to stand with her and wait. But there were no stares and nobody was watching. And Sisko's people hadn't been armed and ready to kill.

Her neighbors were first. The Jem'Hadar scanned the inside, but searched too. A pitcher with a little water was brought outside. It was poured at their feet.

The family was moved to the pathway. The daughter was nearly fourteen and stayed with her parents. The next house was entered. This time more water was found, poured out like the first.

But there was more. They'd kept food. There was a little left, the plate sat on the ground by the guards. The two men were very still, tense and scared but had no option but freeze or run and die. But they were bound. They had girlfriends who often stayed. Michael hoped the enemy didn't know about them.

The Jem'Hadar dragged them away, the men too stunned and terrified to move on their own. They disappeared up the pathway towards the deck.

Michael was deeply grateful they'd drank all they had. Sometimes Shandra brought home a little food, but she hadn't been able to sneak any out the last week and there was nothing to find.

He knew they didn't really need an excuse to kill. But while saving food was officially not permitted, many did anyway. He hoped they had been so hungry they had all eaten and drunk their fill and it was gone or they might have a new bloodbath.

Or would it matter? Would they find some other reason? He'd heard how the Ag people were forced to watch an execution to make the point that they should cooperate. But the Dominion wanted the teraforming project. As guilty as many were, they had a way out.

The people in Residential were of no value. What if they were just in the way?

He didn't watch as they entered Shandra's house. She was in a single unit. It didn't take long. He and Shandra were left alone.

But the two men were gone. And those found with water had been separated. They were being forced to lie face down on the pathway.

Michael didn't look at them. He and Shandra and the baby were moved to a more sheltered place along the walkway. Others who passed were added to the group.

But the water savers were growing in masse. The smaller children were sent to those who had behaved but older ones went with their parents.

It took forever. They were told to sit. He held Shandra close and rocked Tasha to help keep her calm. He was afraid she'd cry and they would stop her. When they'd checked every house in Subdivision A the lucky ones were told to stand.

Emery pulled Shandra to her feet. A little girl of perhaps three who's parents had been sent to the path has pressed herself against them. He took her hand, then lifted her into his arms.

"Return to the deck," they were ordered.

He stumbled down the roadway. There were much fewer than before. When they arrived, the next group were being marched back to be searched.

They were directed to an area near the line of blue posts and told to sit. But in the back of the deck some devices had been installed. Once, the Chief had assigned his staff to a study of Dominion technology, and he thought they were generators of some sort. It was odd they'd bring advanced technology to a place strictly denied it. He kept staring at them, though.

Then he remembered. They generated a force field. The deck was to be used to detain them. It was warm now, but later in the afternoon the cold would return and it would be miserable. If left through the night, it would be very cold. Some of these people weren't dressed well enough for that.

The little girl had gravitated to Shandra, and she had her arm around her now, Tasha curled on her lap. She hadn't even looked at him since they'd been scanned. She was pale, but he thought it was mostly from fear.

Eventually, section B was finished and some came back. Two more were marched past with hands bound. He gathered that those who passed were added to his select group. After C was done he noticed Jackson and his family moving hesitantly along in the line.

But there were a lot of people missing. Talanora and their random selection of survivors kept coming to mind. The ones they'd bound were moved beyond where he could see. One other had been dragged along, so scared she couldn't walk. The others separated from them were still on the lower deck.

Shandra had gone to sleep, leaning against him with the children cuddled in her arms. Perhaps she was more reassured than him, or just too tired to care. But Michael could not rest. He watched constantly, on edge whenever the Jem'Hadar moved any closer.

But D was done, and then E. D had contributed two more bound prisoners, and E one more. Perhaps half the residents were missing. Those moved to the deck were ordered to stand, then shifted to the side. There was a corridor left between them and the field generators.

Then the others were marched up the deck, past Michael's group and into the area surrounded by the force field generators. They were scared and hesitant and perhaps relieved to have it soon done. But rifles were pointed at then and they moved as ordered. He could see the hesitation when they saw the outside pen they'd be put in. Few probably knew exactly what it was, but perhaps most of them guessed. Even one night outside would be awful.

Then the field came on, and they were surrounded. It was invisible, but a few tossed a rock at it. The rocks crumpled and the internees backed off into a huddled mass in the middle.

The Vorta appeared, walking up the pathway behind them and surrounded by Jem'Hadar. Apparently he didn't feel safe alone here. He wasn't. But anybody threatening him would die long before they came close.

He stood and watched his prisoners. Looking at those in the force field, he wore a grim look.

"Due to gross and ample violations of the rules given to you last year, this colony has been placed under Martial Law. Each section will be separated by a gate. Only those authorized to pass through the gate will be permitted to do so.

He turned towards the hospital. Several Jem'Hadar were busy erecting a series of pylons at the bend in the pathway. "The medical division has been put under house arrest. Rations will be limited to one third normal when they are provided. Supplies will be reduced." He looked at Michael's group. "You may take those too ill to the hospital, but patients will be under house arrest as well until they go home."

Shandra was awake, staring at the Jem'Hadar. She held Tasha and the girl very close, and her eyes were filled with fear.

The Vorta indicated the offices. "The most serious offenders will be detained in this section. None will be allowed to pass through it." Another gate was being started, the first support posts in place. Michael tried to tell himself that for them it might be better. Why put up a gate if you were going to lock all the doors?

Then he turned his attention to them. Looking mostly at Michael's group, he spoke to both sides of the deck.

"This section will be allowed a measure of freedom. No contraband was found. Once the detention of minor offenses has ended, you may move about freely within this blue line. Those who cross it will be shot."

As he spoke, two men were dragged from the far gate near the offices, Shandra's neighbors. The Jem'Hadar moved to the blue line nearest the detainees, leaving a large gap between them, and shoved them across. "Stand," they were ordered.

Slowly and stiffly they complied.

A younger woman and what was probably her brother were dragged in next. They were placed a little further down, where the detainees on the end could see. They also stood as ordered, past the blue line..

Then the remaining four were pushed down the small corridor between groups of prisoners. He could tell they'd been beaten. The two men that had lived next to Shandra and the woman from C were among them. He thought the other man was one of Vance's old aides, but hadn't ever met him.

They were pushed across the line at spaced intervals so everyone would have a good view. Then, the crowd watching in sudden terrible anticipation, the Jem'Hadar moved into place, raising rifles aimed at the stomach.

"To make sure that *all* of you understand fully, these offenders will serve as examples."

They shot at the same time. Michael stared, fascinated by the way each collapsed, some on their sides and some head down. He knew this was a form of slow death. Their victims would bleed internally. He knew that there was nothing on Cyrus to stop the slow wasting away.

He wasn't thinking of food or water anymore. He was stunned by the sudden, almost random choice of victims. But inside, he was simply numb.

But he and Shandra and the baby were alive. The ones in the pen, once they were done with their own punishment, would be released. The ones that were dying would die because nothing could stop them from bleeding to death.

Glebaron spoke again, giving them time to stare at those executed for their crimes.

"These offenders were outside the blue line. They were executed. Any of the rest will die in the same manner if the line is crossed."

Michael pulled Shandra close. She was still staring, watching as the woman from C bled into her coat, now ringed with red, bright blood. At least Tasha was too young to see it.

But there were other children. He'd picked up the little girl when they'd raised their rifles, and covered her face with his hands. She cringed when they shot.

He'd seen art from the children of Bajor. This little girl would draw the same kind of death filled images. Maybe Tasha would be spared ever seeing something so cold. Maybe they wouldn't stay long enough for her to know about brutality. But he couldn't think beyond the next few moments right then.

"As of yesterday, no food or water was permitted in your dwellings. These people were found in violation. Tomorrow at noon they will be permitted to return to their homes."

He looked at the huddled group, taking great care to avoid the forcefield. They'd almost saved a little water for morning. He shivered with the memory. The afternoon would bring a cold wind. The evening would see a sharp drop in the outside temperature, and rain was still likely. The morning warmed slowly, but by mid-morning it would be very hot again.

He hoped they could take it. He knew the offense was useful, and had created a random selection of examples, but a little voice inside him knew *he* wasn't caught in the trap. Shandra and Tasha would be safe inside tonight. That was what mattered.

"The others may return to your dwellings. You will be permitted a container of water per each three persons. This is to last the next two days while you are under strict curfew. Do not leave your dwellings."

Michael pulled Shandra to her feet. She was still staring at the bodies. But she stumbled along with him and the little girl. At the pathway towards the lower deck he was given a large bottle of water to carry. The girl moved towards Shandra and gripped her coat.

Reaching her quarters, he pushed open the door, not fully closed. Shandra and the two children stumbled inside. He carefully balanced the water and sat it on the table.

The little girl looked longingly at the door as he closed it. "I want mommy," she said.

"You'll get mommy back in a few days. We'll take care of you for now."

She ran to Shandra, who had put the baby in her crib. The child crawled in her lap and started to cry.

Michael felt relief wash over him. The others were locked up in little boxes. For them it would only be a few days. They were alive and inside. No matter how bad it was, things could be so much worse. There had been no food yet, but perhaps it would come soon. But they had water.

He found a cup and poured Shandra a small drink. She sipped it slowly, wetting her dry lips. She shared a little with the girl, then gave him back the cup.

He had a full glass. There wasn't much. They'd have to ration it but he wanted to make sure Shandra would get enough. He gave her one more glass and put the cup next to the bottle.

He had never tasted anything so sweet.

"I'm hungry," mumbled the child.

With nothing to eat for two days, everyone was. "I can't help that," he told her.

She crumpled into Shandra again and cried softly.

He checked the room. They must have used scanners since there wasn't anything moved. Or perhaps they didn't bother to search, but just looked for what sat out in the open.

They'd found enough examples. It didn't matter after that.

Shandra had made a little bed for the girl on the small couch. She was wrapped in a coat and crying softly to herself.

"We'll be okay," she said.

He tried to think of those caught on the deck, but they were off in the distance. Luck had been with them today. Tomorrow wasn't here yet. He crawled into bed with Shandra, letting go of everything but her warmth. The numbness faded a little but he knew it would never completely leave him. But maybe with Shandra and this little Tasha to love and care for, he could live with the images and the blood a little bit easier.

Tomorrow would come when it did. But today was over. That was enough for him now.

o0o

Cheryl stiffly entered first, put Calla in her bed, and collapsed on their own.

Carl stumbled in, pushing Jeffrey towards his toys, and made sure the door was shut tight. He wished they had used locks, as Sisko had. He was afraid Jeffrey would go outside.

Then he started to shake. Yesterday, he'd been marched past the bludgeoned bodies in the square, but he hadn't committed their crimes. But today they'd watched close up as eight people had been murdered. They weren't dead yet, but given a day or so and a lot of agony, they'd be gone soon enough.

Maybe those they'd hacked apart were lucky. They died fast.

But these victims were too close. If they had not split the food the night before, they might all be dead, or slowly dying.

Who would be holding Calla that night? Would Jeffrey have watched their deaths?

He sat on the bed next to his wife, shivering as if chilled. "We could be . . . . "

"We aren't," she said, a firmness to her tone he clung to. "We need some water. They said two days. But I'd save a little."

He tried to shake the image of her standing by the blue line, then falling.

"I'll get you some."

He took a pen first, marking the bottle so they could see when half was gone, then dividing that into quarters.

Cheryl got the first drink. She passed it to Jeffrey, who gave the cup to Calla. He held it for her so she wouldn't spill any. Then he took a sip for himself.

"We will survive this," said Cheryl. "Just remember that."

They shared the rest of the cup and another, drinking it in sips. Calla was tired and cranky, but for once he didn't mind her crying. Jeffrey sat with his blocks, making haphazard piles and smashing them with his fists.

Carl watched as his wife lay down with his daughter, giving her a chance to nurse and settle down. Jeffrey rammed his blocks around for hours.

Carl watched, knowing how close he'd come to being orphaned. There was so much anger there. He had been shielded from watching the executions, but had heard, and seen the bodies. He was old enough to just understand. When he was older, when they could take revenge, what would become of him?

At least his mother and father would have the chance to try to make a difference. Carl laid down next to his wife and let her hold him. He did not know when they slept but when they woke it was getting dark outside and the room was growing cold. Jeffrey was asleep, laying on the floor with his blocks scattered around him. Calla was awake, playing in her bed.

Even with the sleep, the exhaustion of the day was catching up with them. He put Jeffrey to bed, making sure he was wrapped well in his blanket. The boy didn't even wake up. Carl envied him. He had his blocks to smash. Carl didn't have anything Calla was brought to her mother for a little nursing, and Carl picked up the blocks.

He stacked them carefully. The figure had two legs and was a block above that except for the head. He just stood staring at his block man. He raised his foot, wanting to smash it as Jeffrey did, there being so much anger inside him. But the boy was asleep. Calla was curled up next to her mother, both relaxed. He did not want to disturb the silence or the peace. He raised his foot, just holding it and let himself imagine the blocks falling, scattering all over the floor. But he did not see blocks but blood and body parts as they flew away, scraps of reptilian Jem'Hadar skin torn away from the flesh. He sat down his foot, still seeing the traces of blood as it faded.

Someday. But for now, it was a very cold night. He slid close to his wife, wrapping his arms around her. Calla was curled against her mother and he lifted the girl up so she lay on top of them, then covered the three with the blanket, tucking it in so the cold would not get in.

He woke once with a nightmare, putting Calla in her own bed and wrapping her well. Then he settled next to Cheryl and she held him. Outside the wind was blowing. He spared those freezing outside a passing thought, but it was quiet and he'd had enough to drink that he could think about his empty stomach instead. Cheryl pulled him close and they settled in each others arms.

It was a warning dream. There were no more chances to be taken. This time they had been lucky. Perhaps the next they would not. But he would forestall that day as long and as well as he could.

o0o

Cary shivered in the wind. They were huddled together in a tangle of bodies, but it didn't help when the icy wind flowed over them. He had his jacket and boots on, and had taken his hat.

Inside his pockets were his gloved hands. Some were wearing far less and only the bodies surrounding them were keeping them warm. His preparations tabbed him for the outside ring where the wind found open places to penetrate the clothes.

Noon was much too far away. He was thirsty and hungry and scared, but most of all he was cold.

Yesterday, when the Chief's staff had been hauled into the nightmare, he'd counted himself lucky. He had been taken past the bodies, but tried not to see more than he had to. They were red, blood covered heaps. He didn't know who they had been and didn't want to. They had returned he and his crew to their quarters first. He remembered how his roommates had been backed away when the Jem'Hadar opened the door and pushed him inside. Maybe they should have remembered, he thought rather bitterly.

He'd told them to make sure all the rules were in place and to dress warmly because they'd come there the next day. Then he'd retreated to his room and not come out until the door was opened and the orders to leave were bellowed inside. They hadn't taken his advise and were without coats. He had slept in his coat and boots and hat, gloves in his pocket.

He never imagined they'd have left the water. They had mutually agreed to put up with each other, but he'd had traces of blood on his shoes when they brought him back. They should be here, freezing in the wind for their carelessness. He would make sure they paid him back.

Even before they'd been sorted out and put in this little death trap, the day had been worse than the one before. The morning was too cold, and when his heavy clothes had finally warmed him the sun came out and it was far too hot. He hadn't had enough to drink and his mouth and lips and stomach hurt. His vision was a little blurry, from the bright sun and the dryness in his eyes.

Then they'd been sent to stand in front of their houses. It was too much like the searches Sisko had staged. He had only been there once, but almost understood why his neighbors glared at anyone with pins now.

He wished they had known how hard that was. His was that of an underling, by his own choice, but he knew how it worked. People appreciated his work, but that was only possible because it was *permitted*. Sometimes the oddest things were refused, and others they had already written off as impossible were allowed. He could not have stood to be a major staffer. They had to attend the meetings where everyone pretended that their plans meant something. They had to pretend it wasn't a lie.

But now was the time for truth. Dead bodies ripped apart. Terrified people stuffed in a cage while they shivered, afraid to go near the edges. It was deadly. One of their number lay dead, electrocuted by a touch. He would have preferred to not have his jacket and been near the center of their huddle, and not so close to the deadly field. Each time they pushed out, he shoved whoever was against him back.

The wind was picking up. Somehow the force field kept it at bay but not the cold. Everyone was exhausted and cold and desperate and he just wanted it over and in his warm bed. He had, once when they were gone, searched their room for contraband, just in case. He should have checked before he went to sleep and drank all the water. They would be angry but they would all be warm now if he had.

The huddle slid closer to the side and he and the others pushed back. He could remember so clearly when the pitcher had been brought outside, and he'd seen the cold, hard look in the Jem'Hadar's eyes. They'd already taken a few of his neighbors to the walkway. He'd froze for a second, thinking of the bodies they'd seen the day before.

He'd wondered if that was his fate? Would they kill someone for storing water?

But he moved. He'd lay down on his stomach, resting his head on his folded hands. He wondered when they'd shoot. How long did it take for you to die if they shot you in the back?

He had been numb when they'd moved the others away. But he couldn't stop wondering at the randomness. Everyone saved water. Sisko had never shut off their supply, but there were frequent interruptions as they tried to improve it. Some had known better, given the situation after the Jem'Hadar had locked them in, but most probably didn't even think of it. It was random and unpredictable and no one would ever forget the cold night.

Luck had been with them the day before, but as the time dragged on and the pebbles ground their way into his legs, he knew all of it had run out.

There had been silence after the others were moved away. With nothing to distract him, he imagined they would pick and choose who to kill. If nobody was there to watch it wouldn't be such a good lesson to the rest. He didn't care if anyone he knew was saved. All that mattered was that he lived. He was innocent after all.

Then, hours gone by, his stiff, tired body was made to stand. He had seen them bind some of the others. It was a relief, and almost a surprise, that they were left alone.

But they'd been pushed by the guards. The others weren't. He was afraid that if someone fell it would be the end.

The deck had been divided into two sections. He saw the field generators and knew what they were. He almost stopped before the force of other bodies pushed him inside.

The Dominion used them to store prisoners.

The others went un-penned.

He stood, watching as the force field was initiated. There was a buzz you could barely hear, but it tingled your skin. He'd gotten used to that part. He only hoped that it would keep out wind and rain too.

Then the Vorta had brought in his other prisoners, and demonstrated the blue line. The girl had been very close. She was barely sixteen. She stared quiet and terrified as she stood, looking down on the line. When they shot her she had her eyes closed, standing stiffly as if she was a living statue.

She was shorter than the rest. The Jem'Hadar must have been aiming at her stomach where she'd take a long time to die. But he hit higher, and she slumped down and to the side.

She was bleeding very heavily. They'd hit an artery. At least she'd die very quickly.

Then they were told that they'd be left out in the dark, cold night. But all he could see was the girl, blood pooling at her side on the pebbly ground. She had had a measure of luck. She'd been hit wrong and was probably already dead.

The others were allowed to leave. He told himself it would be a hard night, but after noon came it would be over. He could manage somehow.

He'd stayed where he was for a time. He watched as the girl's body grew pale and stiffened. Staring at her, he told himself that his room mate often hid food too. How close had the three of them come to dying with her?

But the cold came suddenly. Despite his coat, he kept shivering. They mingled themselves together, those with coats further to the edge. Somehow it seemed *wrong* that those with some thought of the possibilities were on the outside, so near the deadly field. The man that died had been looking out when he got too close. But Cary could remember the smell of the burns as his flesh had charred. It was too cold to smell anything now, but when it warmed it would fill the little deathtrap and they would all remember it.

Cary kept bent against the others. The deadly line was too close, and he didn't want to accidentally brush it. That was all the man had done. He kept thinking of his roommates. How could they take the risk? Or were they so used to ignoring him they had not even heard?

But they hadn't seen the bodies. He wondered if they might have been more careful otherwise.

When this ended, he wanted new quarters. He couldn't stand the though of sharing a house with someone who'd been so careless. What else would they do? Would this horrible night be enough of a lesson?

Then, suddenly, the lights came on. It was the middle of the night. The wind whipped icy air past their huddled tangle. It would only get colder.

The field was off. He could tell by the lack of tingle and the disappearance of the hum. The wind blew around them at its full driving force and everything grew worse. The Jem'Hadar lined up before them.

He forgot about the cold. They had rifles out. Maybe they couldn't shoot through the forcefield.

The Vorta was there too. In the shimmering artificial daylight, his bright clothes glimmered and shined.

"There are eleven bodies that must be moved. I require two volunteers for each. As a reward, you will be allowed to return to you quarters at dawn. Those not chosen but who volunteer will be allowed a cup of water."

He thought of the mangled bodies in the square, and the stiff body of the girl. He didn't like touching dead bodies. He'd not been able to do it when the Antelope crashed and doubted he could now.

But maybe they wouldn't choose him. Maybe he'd at least get a drink of water.

People were untangling themselves. One by one, they hung back and then stepped forward. With so many to choose from, he could take a chance.

He stumbled forward, but hesitantly. Others were not so reserved. The night was very cold and to get inside was great temptation. Even if all they got was a sip of water, it was worth the chance.

The guard pointed at him. "Come," he said.

Cary almost stepped back. He hated touching blood. The shoes from yesterday were in the back of his closet since he didn't know if he could touch them with the blood they'd gotten on them. He didn't want to see death so intimately.

But they had rifles. He followed, forcing his reluctant feet to move.

Another man, half-dressed and shivering, was told to follow.

For a moment, he thought they'd lead him to the offices. He didn't want to think of the mangled bodies there. He didn't ever want to see them again.

But they rounded the force field, and the guard pointed at the girl.

She was stiff, knees bent with one foot higher than the other. Her clothes were soaked with dark, clotted blood. His partner bent to pick up the feet, grasping both legs awkwardly. He swallowed hard and reached under her shoulders. She rolled onto her back. Her eyes were still closed. She wore a look of anticipation.

But she wasn't real. Her body was fully stiff and yet still heavy. The skin was clammy against his wrists where his sleeve had ridden up. His partner was having trouble he was shivering so badly.

Cary moved slowly. The guard pointed to the pathway towards the hospital, where several of the body carriers were already waiting.

They waited longer. The dead from the offices had to be carried further. They'd been wrapped in blankets, and drooped too much. He decided the girl with her stiff body was easier.

They moved through a line of guards at the beginnings of the gate. It was hard holding onto the girl and climbing the hill. But the hardest part was knowing he would always remember her.

It was easier if she was just a body. But she became real on the trip to the square outside the hospital.

They were ordered to leave the bodies outside the side door, next to the body of one of the medical people slumped in the fine layer of native grass. The man who'd brushed the forcefield had been added too.

He stopped near the pathway, wondering if they went back. The first strains of light were forming in the sky. It was almost dawn.

The Jem'Hadar told them to line up. Some had blood all over their hands, or smeared on their clothes. He was lucky. But he could *smell* her on his gloves.

There was a table with water jugs sitting by the trail. "Go to your quarters. Take one jug of water per person. Do not go anywhere else."

He took his jug of water. He hated touching it with the contaminated gloves. But he wanted the water so much he could barely wait to get home.

There were guards watching. He opened his door, surprised that nothing had been moved. But he took the water in his own room.

The others would wait until they ask when they were released from the pen. He would take his time. Perhaps it would remind them the next time they wanted to chance disaster.

Stripping off the gloves, he threw them on the floor. Then, he untied his laces and pulled off the heavy work boots.

Only then did he see the blood. It was all over them. He just stared at it.

But he was home. It was warm inside, next to the icy outside air. He wanted to sleep without shivering. Taking the water, he poured himself a full glass.

It was ice cold. They'd taken it from the main water supply and it was clean and clear. He sipped it slowly, wishing he could have more.

But it had to do for three dehydrated people for two days. He'd give them their portions or they might drink it all.

He hid it in his clothes. They'd wake him if they tried to look. Before they got any, he had a few things to say to them.

But as he rolled in his blanket and tried to sleep, he could smell the musty blood and feel her stiff body. She was so young. Even here, she should have a chance to live.

He'd tried not to look at the rest. Some were still alive. Would they leave them in the dirt until they died, or end it early?

But he couldn't sleep with dreams like that. He'd managed. He was home hours earlier than he might have been. He was warm and as safe as one could be in this world. Lying comfortably in his bed, the accumulated tensions slipped away and the exhaustion took over. His wife stood, looking at him, laughing, smiling as he reached for her, then he rushed towards her, the dead girl and the cold and all the rest of the horrible day falling away when he reached her arms.

Somewhere, she lived and smiled and probably mourned. But he would be with her in his dreams again. Each night she called and he ran to her, but before he woke she slipped away. But someday he keep her from leaving. He'd hold her again and share a kiss.

Exhausted and hungry and shivering, he let himself slip into memories of a time when there were no dead sixteen year olds to haunt his dreams.

o0o

Julian sat flat against the wall, staring out the door. It was physically barred, but he doubted that was for more than visual effect and was certain the force field behind it was at the minimum disabling. The cell walls were hard and cold, especially against bare skin. The walls were a grid as well, and the edges dug in after a little while. He had not been there as long as the huddled group of naked prisoners across the cell, mostly from Ag. All of them apparently had been found with contraband. The guard had informed him as he was being dragged to the door. Kay was missing. They shifted around, stunned and scared and humiliated by their nakedness. He ignored them. The Jem'Hadar had shoved him inside a little while before, but he didn't know how much since all he could feel was the fiery pain in his leg.

After the Vorta had been done with him, he'd been put in a holding cell and untied. Numb, he'd stared at the door, not knowing if the next step was the interment camp or more prodding to change his mind. He'd been sleeping when the Jem'Hadar had opened the door and pointed their rifles at his head, ordering him to strip. He couldn't stand, but perhaps they had figured that out because they were very patient, at least for Jem'Hadar, as he undressed. Sitting on the floor of the cell, that one not a wire grid, he had rolled on his side and pulled his knees to him. The bad leg was throbbing from the movement, but he rested it against the floor and tried to be as still as possible. The guards had retrieved his clothes and left him alone for some unknown time. Long enough he'd slept sufficient that the pain diminished a bit, before they returned. He had heard their approach, anticipating the door being opened, and was hauled up from the floor without warning and dragged out.

Then they had dumped him in the cell with the others. The first thing he realized was none of the officials were there, no Willman or Sisko or Miles. But the ones found with contraband sat hunched together against the wall, stripped and shivering. Somehow he had never equated himself with them. They did it to rebel. He kept the instrument just to survive. But he guessed to Them it was all the same.

The cold crept up on him. His leg hurt a little less as he started to shiver. The grid dug into bruises from his being dragged and he wondered if he was to be executed next to his companions or if the vorta would continue to try to persuade him to agree. Vaguely, he remembered sharing warmth with Jadzia when they were trapped in the icy cold that time. But the memory was spoiled, knowing she was an official in Sisko's little cadre. Even if he accepted the Vorta's offer, she would be gone. He looked longingly at the huddled mass across from him, but knew even if he was welcome that the pain would not be worth it. But then, the cold was forgotten and any temptation to cooperate tempered by the first they'd hauled out of the cell.

The forcefield behind the bars faded and everyone watched, nervous and hesitant. Then the barred door was pulled open. The first man, one of the young Ag staffers who had probably thought he was defying the enemy, was called to the door. He pulled himself to his feet reluctantly, trying to cover himself, and stood nervously while the guards approached.

They pointed ahead. He tried to move but couldn't. All Julian could think of was the nurse they'd shot on Cyrus when they'd first come.

But he stood, frozen, by the door for a long moment. The head guard grabbed his arm and tore him from the door, the ag man falling on the floor where he landed. He didn't move at all, just lay on his side with every muscle tense.

Then they kicked him in the stomach. He'd tried to move away, but the other guard kicked him along the spine.

He gasped, suddenly still. His legs fell limp. Julian watched in morbid fascination, the young man's breathing coming in gasps.

He'd put his hands over his face. Then he lay there, waiting for death.

Everyone in the cell was staring in horror. The guards must not have had authority to decide the fate of these prisoners. Another Jem'Hadar arrived with some sort of scanner. After a brief scan, he pointed his weapon at the man and fired.

The prisoner jerked. The shot was aimed at his heart, but must have missed. His shoulder landed on the floor, blood spilling from the wound.

Then the Jem'Hadar drove his bayonet through the spine, into the abdomen. All the tension disappeared from the body as life faded.. But they left him there to remind the others of the cost of disobedience.

It hadn't been that way at the internment camp. Prisoners were beaten but they were taken past the wall and never seen again. Some even returned, as he had. Most did not have the esoteric value Deyos must have considered him to. He suspected he still did, but the young ag staffer hadn't. But they'd all walk past the growing pool of blood, careful not to look, but even more careful not to hesitate.

Gradually, one by one each was called out. They all moved quickly and did not hesitate, walking delicately past the body. But it was impossible not to step in the blood. The bayonet had been pulled out, and the still figure lay in a large pool of it by the time his turn came. But he could only crawl to the door. They waited, and kicked the body to the side, grabbing him off the floor and dangling him over their shoulders.

He could see the blood spattered on their shoes. And hear the sound as his secret instrument had hit Jenny's blood, and the world had ended. His leg was swinging back and forth, sending waves of agony and he passed out on this way to a new oblivion.

o0o

Lonnie Broadman sat in the office her mentor and friend and tormentor had used. He was gone now. She didn't expect him to live. Bashir was gone, too, and would likely die as well. All that remained was her. She had patients for whom she could do nothing. Maybe Bashir might have saved them, but she would probable kill them if she tried.

But it didn't matter. Supplies were very low. If a patient was marginal, medicine wouldn't be wasted on them.

She knew about triage. She'd even worked within its hard limits back when the Antelope came to ground. But this was different. Now, there was so little. So much depended on the will of each to survive.

There were already more death certificates. She couldn't say for sure what had happened to several and didn't feel like using the tricorder, so she was a little more vague than she liked.

She was so tired. A trickle of water still came from the pipes leading into the hospital, and a small amount of food had been saved from the night before they came. It had been filled with more of the scarce water and boiled. Everyone, staff and patients and families now trapped inside were rationed small bits of it.

Nobody knew when there would be more. As it was they had little more than barely flavored broth.

She had no idea what had happened outside. Those who passed the scan were sent inside the hospital, and the doors had been locked. She was almost surprised that the power hadn't been cut too. The trickle of water took hours to collect from the one faucet that was working.

Inside, it was very noisy. Patients screamed and cried when the scarce meds ran out and the pain was too much. Those with fevers talked to unknown ghosts, and sometimes screamed at them. Children who wanted parents who'd been taken away sobbed out their sorrows.

There were people everywhere. A small room had been set up for the children to sleep, away from most of the noise and fuss. It was too full. But it was a little better than making them watch the play of life and death that dominated the rest of the place.

The old staff rooms had been crowded with as many beds as possible. Staff shifts were redone so they could share the scarce sleeping space. Patients had been re-evaluated with her own experience in mind. Surgical cases were put in the "red" section, those who might survive. Those needing surgery but not yet having had it performed were in yellow if they'd live anyway. But most needed the surgery to survive and their place in red was a death watch. They might live or die but she couldn't help them. Only Bashir could and he was probably dead.

The rest were divided in terms of available supplies. If more came in, she'd move patients as needed. But everyone knew who was in charge. Scared and hungry and devastated, they obeyed because they needed someone to tell them what to do.

They knew they were under house arrest. They had been informed of that the first evening. Knowing that they would not be going home had helped organize things. It would be better to know when and if supplies would arrive, but she'd have to live with that.

But that morning the door was opened. A message was passed inside that she and two staff members would come out at once. She grabbed the first two nurses she found and nervously stood by the door.

It was the same corridor that Willman had used to place the box. The light was murky. There were no windows inside to tell them if it was day or night, and the little light reflected under the locked door didn't help.

The door opened. It was just starting to get light. She gulped the fresh air. Somehow, they'd already stopped noticing how foul it smelled inside.

Then she saw what awaited her. Outside, lying on the gravely ground, covering the small patches of fine native grasses, were thirteen bodies.

None of them moved. She didn't want to disobey the guards. And she could see the wounds were massive and bloody. They were executions. She couldn't pretend about how bad it might get if she had to face this.

"You must issue death certificates," she was told.

She had nothing for notes. Inside, a tag reader would verify their names, but most of their tags were covered in blood and would have to be dug out of wounds.

"I need paper," she said.

"You may have one of them get it and return," she was told.

The last nurse nodded and waited. Then Lonnie had an idea. "I need my tag reader too."

"She may get it."

The nurse disappeared inside the hospital. Despite the cold and the presence of death it wasn't so enclosed. The air smelled better. The breeze carried away the stench of the oldest bodies.

"May I examine them while we wait?" she asked.

"Work," said the Jem'Hadar.

She realized he was giving her a measure of authority. Only a small one, but it felt good. She didn't know as much as she should, but he didn't see the fears or sense of failure. He saw her as the Number One in her group. He was programmed to accept that sort of position and respect it.

She ordered the nurse with a brisk, no nonsense tone. "Get the tags off those two," she said, pointing at the two hacked open corpses that had died first, along with Jenny.

The nurse hurried to obey. The Jem'Hadar waited with what appeared to be calm patience.

The tags were dug out of torn flesh, and laid on the dead men's heads. Lonnie herself would have to read them. Willman had set up the prodical and she still followed it.

She gently took Jenny's tag from her shirt collar. By the time the nurse returned with pens, a board and forms, the tags had been removed on all patients.

Lonnie's hands were bloody, and she held them out to the guard. "I can't touch the forms with my hands like this."

He pointed to a small basin once used to wash out lunch dishes. It still trickled a small dribble of water, and dirt had clogged the drain. The murky water inside wasn't clean, but then the patients wouldn't care.

She dipped her hands in the basin and washed off the blood. Shaking her hands in the cool breeze, she let them dry.

The guard waited patiently, apparently not in any hurry.

She went to the first, Jenny, and read the tag. The little pin was attached to a small transparent bag at the top. The information was recorded and she filled out the rest. Time of death, two days before. Cause of death, execution by Jem'Hadar rifle.

It would do. Eight more of the bodies had much the same recorded, except the time of death. For some, it had been very recently. They were covered in sticky old blood from the first wounds, but it hadn't killed them soon enough. The Jem'Hadar had finished them off just before she'd been called out.

The others were listed as death from dismemberment. Massive trauma to the major organs had caused them to bleed to death. But most of it was drained out, and the remains were already decaying in the sun. She guessed they'd died the same day Jenny did. The last body had been electrocuted. She passed each report to the nurse who had retrieved the forms as she finished it.

She felt empowered. Even if he'd probably shot the wounded, she thought he'd respect her tone. "What do we do with the bodies?" she asked.

"We will take them to your morgue. You may deal with them there."

She was grateful for that. She wouldn't have to wash off more blood right away.

He wasn't finished. "When this is done, assemble you staff in groups of three. You will each have five minutes to take what you need from your quarters."

This was a surprise. She needed clothes. She hoped for a few personal things. If they hadn't been scattered it shouldn't take long.

"I'll have them ready. Should I have them wait here?" she asked.

"By this door. Wait an hour."

She nodded. Briskly, she ordered her staff inside. The air was heavy and smelled of blood and medicines and crowding. The five minutes she'd have to get to her quarters would be appreciated for more than what she could pick up.

Inside, she waited until the door was shut before she relaxed a little. "Wash up," she told the nurse. "I don't want you to bring in an infection. And see if we have any family of these people here. I'll do notifications if it's necessary."

She went to her office and closed the door. Out of view, she slumped in her chair.

They had murdered thirteen people. They would kill more. She remembered asking Bashir what the Dominion was like, and his hesitant answers. She understood now. She didn't have words to express the pain inside her, and could not even deal with the anger.

She had to give the orders. She had to be the calm at the center of the storm. She couldn't afford to grieve or let anger out. Later, but not now.

Composed, she wrote a quick order for each department to be ready when called to go to their quarters. She added a few conditions of her own. There would be one bag only. She allowed personal items. She would permit a book or two. But nothing large could be taken. Necessary clothes were allowed, but not too many.

They might never see any of the rest, but inside there wasn't room for anymore.

She gave it to the nearest nurse. It would be posted and announced. She would go last, just in case anything went wrong.

The captain of the ship did not desert the crew. Willman knew this. In his own way, he'd tried. But she'd have to try harder, and this time they must not fail.

end, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 3


	5. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 4

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two – Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 4

Lonnie watched, tense, as she waited for the last of her staff to return. Each had gone out the door and gathered what they could in the short moments, then waited by the box. They had to show what they had taken, and she knew that personal things would be brought. She understood. She did not yet know if she could leave the little necklace. But she had the box, and they were required to store their personal items, or those things deemed unneeded, until the time it ended.

If she forced them to give up their treasurer, she felt an obligation to safeguard them as well. There were small boxes and bags and pens. They wrote their name on the bag, stored their things inside a box if need be, and placed the item in the sack. It was sealed and placed in the box. If it was delicate or breakable, it would be marked as such. The box would be locked in the area set aside for secure items. If she made them give up their keepsakes, she assumed responsible for the safety of them too.

Some of the rules on the list she would post were far more drastic than Willman had considered, and she intended to enforce them. But she understood that they all knew to some degree what that vision on the hill had taught her and would try to save some small meaningful memento in case the rest disappeared. Willman might have forbidden it but she would acknowledge that need and provide for it. The reality was that this was just beginning. The vision had come true. She would become everything Willy had tried to be, and more, for there was no room for mistakes this time.

The last to go, an orderly, rushed past the guards not looking back as he moved to the box. He was still nervous, obviously shaken, and it wasn't real yet. But he stopped and waited for instructions. She realized they had already granted her all the authority she needed. Her draft of the new rules and disciplines took Willy's worse as a beginning, but she doubted that there would be much need of discipline judging from the way her staff waited without a hint of resentment. She did have the advantage of the Jem'Hadar waiting for them outside.

But he had been right all along. There was no margin for error or trouble in this world, and under her watch there would be none. She only wished he could know that she understood.

The orderly had one small item, and a book. He bagged his personal item without delay, and waited, holding the book, looking at the stack of them to the side. She explained. As books might prove helpful to them, to read or be read to others, she could hold it for him. It would be part of a small library along with the others. It would be used by others, but there were rules about caring for the books. When this was done it would be returned. She knew from that vision that it would end and hoped that, perhaps, her belief would help them not give up. She needed all of them to believe that.

She waited, giving him a moment but he did not need it, placing it on the stack. "Thank you, Sir," he said as briskly as he'd have said to Willy. "If my book helps someone else I'm happy."

As she set the books in the box for now, she watched him go. Command had been transferred and they were grateful for someone to tell them what to do. If only things had been so clearly understood before.

But now it was her turn. As she waited for Jabara she noted there wasn't much in the box and it surprised her. She had expected more, but perhaps they had taken her straight forward attitude to heart. She would not tell them of the vision, but would her belief that, in the end, tomorrow would come.

Jabara arrived, looking tense, but Lonnie was far less so now. They moved to the door, the box in sight where one of them could watch at all times. Jabara would go first. But to Lonnie's surprise, she stopped by the guard. "Sir, we have a child who's mother was taken. If I could have permission to also go to her home and get some of her things."

She asked politely, and waited looking down. The guard probably didn't have the authority but he might be willing to ask. She should have cleared it with Lonnie but it was a legitimate question.

"She may go," he said, pointing at Lonnie.

"Thank you," said Jabara.

The two women waited for permission to leave. He pointed at Lonnie. "Get the child's things first," he ordered.

Taking a deep breath, she checked the time. Kay's quarters were close to the hospital, and she hurried.

The air smelled so good. The blood stains were still visible but not large. She pushed open Kay's door and went straight to Shari's little bed.

Her pillow and blanket were still as they'd been left, and the doll she wanted so badly. Lonnie stuffed the doll and blanket into the pillowcase as best she could. Her clothes were scattered around, but she picked enough that Shari would have a few changes of clothes. There were a few toys and she took all of them. A carry bag was on the floor and she stuffed all the lose things inside and hurried out.

Kay's things were left where they had been. Kay wouldn't be needing them.

She returned in time, waiting outside while she and the assorted things were scanned. Then she moved inside and Jabara had her chance.

She moved quickly, returning with a small bag and a slightly larger one. She stood while scanned. Then she moved inside, waiting by the box.

Lonnie ran. Her door wasn't shut. She knew it had been when she'd left. She grabbed enough clothes to last without washing them often, if that even became possible, and took a few personal needs as well. Then she paused by her treasures. There was so little time. The little piece of glass wasn't valuable to anyone but her. Checking her watch, she took the case and carefully stored it inside her bag of clothes.

Then she hurried back gulping the fresh air and hoping to remember what it felt like later on.

Bashir's quarters were near. Passing the door, she closed it while she passed. Even if he never returned, somebody else could use what was inside. It wouldn't do to have it ruined in the rain.

She stopped at the door. Breathing hard from the last minute rush, she stood still while she was scanned.

He stopped her from entering. "Why did you stop?" he asked.

"The door was open. No sense in the things inside being ruined by rain. Perhaps you could close any of the doors that are not shut."

He didn't look at her. She stood straight and tall, but looked away. He paused, studying the empty quarters. "I will check."

She was allowed in, meeting Jabara at the box. There were more books next to the box. Jabara indicated the books. "I thought these might be a good addition. Maybe someone can read to the patients eventually if nothing else."

Lonnie missed the outside air already. But it would be forever tainted as long as the blood was there. The door shut and latched and both women were relieved. No matter how rank it became the Jem'Hadar were outside.

Lonnie sat down her things, checking over Jabara's. She had nothing personal but the books. She pulled the other out and set them on top. "We need names for these." She realized she had forgotten.

"I'll make a list," offered Jabara.

Lonnie showed her the contents of her bags, and carefully placed the case inside a bag and labeled it, adding Fragile, This side Up.

For a moment she was allowed to be herself. She wondered how Willy had managed to stand wearing his mask. She did not know if she could be two people. Jabara took the box, to be placed in their storage area with the medicines that required locked security. She returned with a small box in which the books were packed and an orderly to carry it. Between them they took the clothes for themselves and Shari. The orderly went ahead.

"What happens to her?" asked Jabara.

"Probably her and others. Someone will have to adopt them I guess."

The nurse looked away. "May I bring her things to her?"

"Certainly. I have some work to do," she said. She stared down the corridor. The morgue was under the main floor. The bodies would have to be disposed of. She wanted to save the ashes if she could so the families would have something.

"I'll help," said Jabara. She took Shari's things and looked away. "It will help the child to have something of her own."

Lonnie watched as she left, and thought her nurse understood exactly what it was like to be so little and have lost everything. She wondered how many other children would be like Shari before it was over.

o0o

Bashir came to lying on a table, strapped securely by his arms and legs. His head was strapped inside some device. Nervously, he tried to see if there was more in his view, but all he could see was the edge of the device and wall.

But he wasn't alone. Heavy boots moved around. Jem'Hadar. And lighter shoes. Vorta. And something else. The sounds were bird-like, almost musical, but the Vorta replied in his own language. Then the Vorta spoke, this time in Standard. "Begin."

Everything tingled. It was as if a charge passed slowly but painlessly through his body, finding its way into each nerve and muscle. It made him feel heavy and relaxed and he melted into the soft layer of the table.

But then it began crawling through his mind. Flashes came and went too fast to tell what they were. Moments of feeling, then nothing would follow. He could not move his body. They were scanning his mind, delving into everything he was, learning all they needed to know.

But then, they already did. He remembered, suddenly, just before waking with Tain staring down at him that devastating day, that they had done this before. Is this how his double had been programmed, so he could mimic him so well nobody would know? There was no need for a double now, but they knew all he could tell them. They surely knew about his genetics. Would he be valued more or less in that knowing? Would he be used?

The scan took forever, and weariness took over. He didn't fight it. As it reached further inside him he stopped thinking, drifting in nothingness. Eventually there was a hiss and then blackness.

Coming to, later in some indefinite time, suspended in some murky haze, he could move again. There was no pain, not even from his bad leg. But he was filled with a great emptiness. Their violation went beyond cruelty or torture, but of his basic self. Somewhere they had all the blueprints, everything that he was stored away. Somehow, he did not quite belong to himself anymore. Perhaps, he thought, he hadn't since the changeling had stolen his life. Since the prison and the guards had become something familiar. Since the man that had disappeared at that conference had ceased to exist. Julian Bashir had not come home. Only what they'd made of him. All the nightmares, all the distance, the impossibility of telling those who cared what he felt inside, the loneliness, the fear, all of this was him now.

The Vorta wanted something. Perhaps something to do with Cyrus, though he didn't want to know what. In his head, he could still see the blood, the young man's merging with Jenny's and swore he would not give them what they wanted. But then, he thought of the hundred dead on the Antelope and Lonnie left alone, and the reign of terror being sent to his *home*. The word startled him. He had not thought of it with that name before. *Could* he refuse? Was it worth giving them the last filament of himself so the rest might live a little longer? Did he owe it to them anyway?

His head pounded. All the instruments were gone and only one strap held him in place. Both the Vorta and the chittering creatures were missing too. The Jem'Hadar hadn't left, though. He felt the strap removed, and was picked up again, dangling down, then shoved into a cage, with a latch that caught on the outside.

Cramped, he tried not to move, though the pain was still gone. The Jem'Hadar slid the cage into a transit slot and he was enveloped in total darkness. He didn't really notice. All he could think of was how they'd scanned his brain, walked through memory and ideas, secrets and lies, and he hoped somehow it would save him from some painful form of interrogation.

Of course, should the Vorta really want his cooperation, that wouldn't matter. That would be harder. There was so much temptation.

The transit tube reached its end and his cage came to a thumping stop. More Jem'Hadar fished it out of the wall and rolled it to a cell door, dumping him inside. Something was thrown at him, landing near his hand and he reached out to feel cloth as the door shut to grey shadow. He rolled it under his pounding head, laying on his side and gave into sleep, wishing it was still a refuge but not really caring anymore because they had taken all of them away.

o0o

Morris was sleeping. He'd rolled onto his side and his arm was dangling off the edge of the cot. It jerked now and then. His hand was contorted in a way that almost looked like he was holding a pen. Since they'd let James sleep, Morris hadn't said much of anything. He woke occasionally, lifting his head and licking dry lips. Once he'd even gotten out of bed when he noticed James was awake to see how he was doing.

James had just said, "Here, I'm here."

Morris looked him over and stumbled back to bed.

Rafferson slept on and off, but woke frequently too. Sometimes he cried in his sleep. Often he cringed away from something in his dreams.

Then he'd wake and sit up. He usually didn't talk to James, but stood over him and peered at the lump on the forehead. James didn't feel like talking and pretended to be sleeping until Rafferson wandered away. He'd go to the little window and stare. Sometimes he stayed less time, but often stood there until he couldn't do anything but stumble back to bed.

James tried to sleep. It would have been easier that way. But strange vivid images flashed across his mind, and he didn't want to remember. Somehow he understood it was easier to manage that way.

He didn't know how long he'd been there, but the pitcher on the little table left as a reminder of the missing water still taunted him. His mouth was so sticky he didn't know if he could even talk without the words getting all mangled.

The first time the guards had come, he'd been too dizzy to stand. Morris and Rafferson had stood and stumbled out the door in a haze. Rafferson had carried in the empty pitcher as he drifted back inside and collapsed on his bed.

James had watched the guards as they scanned the room. A terrible grief came over him when he saw the First, but he couldn't tell from where. Or maybe he just didn't want to know.

James didn't know how long they'd been there, given neither food nor water. His pounding headache almost distracted him from the single minded fascination with thirst.

There was another tap on the door, a signal for them to be up. Morris rolled over and nearly fell in his attempt to sit. Rafferson was already up, staring out the window.

James couldn't stand to see the walls of this little prison anymore. His head pounding, he pulled himself to his feet. Rafferson helped steady him as they waited for the door to open.

It creaked open soon enough.

The Jem'Hadar spoke magic words. "Bring the pitcher."

James was the closest. He picked it up and Rafferson took it from him.

They stumbled outside. The Jem'Hadar scanned them again. James wondered why since they already knew that the inside was bare of any contraband.

The two Jem'Hadar that had gone inside returned. Rafferson stood watching them, holding the pitcher.

They were ordered to wait outside.

James felt dizzy but with Morris and Rafferson supporting him he wasn't going to fall. And it was outside. The square was still covered in the pale grasses that grew on Cyrus. In the warmer part of the year they turned bright green, but this early and this cold it formed a lacy pale green cover.

It was dusk. The sun was almost down. He couldn't see the whole square with the notice board in the way.

A cart was being dragged along. Others imprisoned in the small rooms stood holding their pitchers, and once filled, were sent back inside.

James couldn't take his eyes off the cart. Morris and Rafferson were staring at it too.

Morris was licking his dry, chapped lips.

Rafferson held out the pitcher. The prisoner dispensing the water filled it just below the brim. He had bruises on his cheeks and one eye was swollen.

James looked away from him. Morris backed towards the door and James followed willingly. Rafferson carried the full pitcher very carefully.

Inside, he sat it on the table. He'd picked up a cup off the cart, and carefully poured the first cupful.

They looked at each other and handed it to James, sitting on his cot.

He sipped. It was cold and clear and wonderful. Once, the clear running stream and the trees that surrounded it should have come to mind, but now nothing did.

He handed the cup to Morris, who took a sip and it went to Rafferson after that. Then it was filled three times and each had a full cup.

They were still thirsty, but did not know when more would come.

Exhausted, James crawled back under his blanket. Morris followed suit and Rafferson stared out the little window for a time before going to sleep.

James hurt too much to sleep. Standing had made the headache worse, but the need to see something besides the four walls and the dim light was more important. He tried to see his world, but there were no trees, and no green grass. The birds and the children were gone too. Its absence left a darkness he feared would consume him.

It had even vanished from his dreams. It was as if something physical was blocking it, perhaps with a curtain or a heavy shadow. He was surrounded by a nothingness he couldn't escape, even awake.

He lay on his bed listening to the occasional mumbles of his roommates and the wind blowing outside, sending showers of pebbles against the walls. The roaring in his head from the blow almost drowned it out. He would lie there until he could not stay awake, or when the headache swelled to intolerable. And when he slept there were no dreams.

All of them were asleep on the third night. It was probably the middle of the night. James woke with a scream, suddenly remembering everything.

He kept screaming. The pain was so deep he couldn't stop. Morris tried to speak to him, his voice calm and even, telling him he must stop, must be quiet, but James couldn't. Rafferson just held him, and finally the screams became whimpers and then cascades of tears.

Several hours later, he sat on his bed, knees to his chest, sobbing.

"What did you remember, James? What did they do?" asked Morris. James just hugged his knees harder and continued to sob. "I think we should let him cry it out, for now." He shook his head, looking at Rafferson.

"The only thing he really cared about was that painting. I wonder what they did to it?"

James hugged himself tighter and sobbed, almost hysterically, "They . . . broke it. They made it nothing." He sobbed in broken cries, grief setting in, and Morris sat next to him, putting an arm around his shaking form.

Morris said, very gently, as if to a child, "You can make another one. When this is over we'll find what you need and make you a new frame. I promise." James continued to sob. "Right now, though, you have to get through this. Take each day as it comes. We all do."

"You don't understand," mumbled James, less hysterical, but more defeated. "It's gone." He held up his tear stained face and looked at them. "The picture, it's gone from my head. I can't see it anymore. It was my family's place, and when I could look at it, I could remember them. But it's gone, and now there is nothing." He was calm, his voice shaking only a little. He looked at them, still in shock, but was done. Morris shook his head.

Rafferson knelt down in front of him. He had tears in his eyes. He took James's hands in his and spoke slowly and clearly. "We do understand, James. Everybody here has lost something. But for now we need you. I don't know how long this will last, but we have to be strong for each other. Can you do that for us?"

Looking in his eyes, James nodded, tears spilling over his cheeks. "Okay," he whispered.

James curled on his side, looking at the pattern of the wall reflected in the light. He tried to see the images in the shapes, but could see nothing. He closed his eyes and there was blackness. All the pictures of his world and imagination were gone and he was surrounded by nothing but emptiness.

.

o0o

Ray had checked on Tara, now back in bed, and closed the door to Walter's room, where she'd been sitting. She hadn't said a word since they'd been pushed up the deck to witness the executions. He knew that she was thinking of Walter, how they had forced open the door, and at the point of their rifles, out into the cold. She'd been scared, but just laid in bed quietly crying. Ray missed Walter, the initial shock long having worn off. They would never see him again. They'd probably shoot him, since his old partner had brought so much grief on them, and it was hard to believe that Walter hadn't helped.

He hadn't, of course. All he wanted was distance from them. He knew they were being deceptive and telling lies. All but the one which had come true a few days before.

Ray remembered the executions in a kind of haze. He'd been near one of the men. He'd been scared and beaten, but until he was pushed across their line, and the Vorta had explained, he hadn't guessed. He'd been staring with surprise at the Jem'Hadar who killed him. Ray felt pity for him. But he and Tara and, he thought, Walter had understood the depravity of their captors. Ray had been raised in a small, mostly ignored little colony not in the Federation. He hadn't grown up with their fairy tales. He'd learned sufficient skills to work on the ships and escape, but he knew there were two kinds of people, the ones who used, and the ones who were used. Tara had drifted for a little while before landing in her small stall on Bajor to sell her wares. The Bajorans had recognized she was more one of them. The rest who came on the Antelope, unless they were Bajorans, had not really believed in monsters, and only now were slowly waking into the kind of world they lived in.

Walter's father had been a dreamer, a man who wanted to plant seeds which would save those who'd been forgotten. Sometimes this caught him and his family in the middle of local wars and he knew about poverty. Once, he'd told Ray that his mother was alive, but his father and brother had continued their work, and had died with the village when their enemies came. Now, Walter would meet the same fate. But, thought Ray, the village would go on or they'd have not been so elaborate about the executions.

He could still remember the looks on the faces of those around him, mostly the starfleet survivors, when faced with the ruthless truth of their life now. But just the same it was a favor. Now they'd be wary and if they were lucky might not join the dead.

Tara looked too pale, even for the recent events. He should go to her. But now he was afraid. She was the only light left in his life. There was no family to miss, or mourn, or hadn't been before Walter. He'd watched as Tara had carefully placed Walter's things back where he liked them, as if his spirit would have a place to return. Walter had been so still, and pale and terrified before they'd dragged him away. He wished that wasn't the last picture of one of his first real friends he would ever have.

When he was gone, Ray had just held Tara for a time. She didn't feel right, pulling away from him. He was afraid she was letting him go. He didn't make friends often, though eventually had on the ship. They'd died. Walter would. He was so afraid that she would be stolen away too.

But she'd been up, and sick again. Leaving the fear behind, he quietly went into their room, sitting next to her.

"We should be let out soon unless the thing was lying. I'm worried about you."

"I'm a little thirsty," she whispered. "Just tired."

He got up, bringing her some water. "If your sick," he said, hesitantly, "I'll get you to see the nurse."

She rolled over, taking the water. "I'm not sick. Nothing she can do. It was just like this with my little girl. Almost as soon as it happened it started, and I just knew."

Ray was listening, appalled by what she was suggesting, at least the timing. "You can't be sure so soon," he said.

"Sure I can. I'm pregnant, Ray. Things weren't so good with her, and nothing terrible happened until," she said, sitting up. "I don't need a doctor."

"The rations," he said.

"I bet I'll get more. They want babies. They won't try and kill the ones on the way," she said cynically.

But she'd mentioned her daughter, saying she hadn't lived, once. He didn't feel like prying and later didn't want to risk somehow losing her by asking.

"Was there trouble with your daughter?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

"No. Not until after she was born. And I still don't need a doctor. She was healthy and fine and so was I. But she was beautiful and smart and was going to visit her grandmother. Her father was taking her. We didn't get along well." She looked stoically at the wall. "The Klingons hit the ship. Something was wrong with it, and it blew up."

Her voice was calm, almost matter of fact. He sat next to her, trying to hold her but she held herself so stiffly. "I can't imagine," he said.

"I loved her, but she is gone. And this child will be different. I wish it to be a boy. We should name him Walter." Then she turned away. "But then, I gave up. I didn't want them to go. It was dangerous. And even if the woman despised me, I could have stopped them, but I didn't. I was weak. I didn't want him to abandon me so I didn't interfere with his mother's plans." She looked up at him. "*We* will watch out for our child now. There was no 'we' then."

Ray didn't know how to, didn't know how protect anyone. She still held grief for the child, and perhaps blamed herself for this 'weakness'. But he knew what it felt like to be alone. And that she carried his own child was not quite real. She'd taken his hand. "There *is* now," he said, just holding it gently. When they'd hauled away Walter, when they'd shot the others, he'd thought there was nothing that would ever matter to him again. Even Tara, he'd thought, would drift away like the rest.

"Walter had his dream stolen from him," she said softly. "We talked about it. They lied to him, didn't tell him who they were, but then, he let them. He was weak too. He wanted what they gave so much he couldn't question." She pulled him closer and moved over, as he lay next to her now. "And he was wrong. This place, it is not our ending. It is our beginning. They will leave. They always will. We'll still be here, and it will be our home."

He kissed her. But he was thinking about that drive that led to centuries of exploration and migration on earth, to see what lay over the rise, and then past the mother planet. What had driven his own family to the little settlement, now gone, wiped out during the war with the Maquis. He couldn't wait to leave, but wished he could go back.

"Walter would have liked that. He said they were going to have an expedition past the mountains once the test was done." He pulled her close, sharing their warmth in the cold room, blanket covering them like a shield. "Little Walter, or his sister, won't need a spaceship to explore. For the rest, this is hell. For us, when they are done, I think not."

Somewhere along the way, Ray had decided there was a purpose for everything, even those cruel turns of fate, and as she relaxed against him he knew for him, and for her and for the *child* which was both, it was to open a new door to a new world that would give them the home they'd never really found.

And he find a way to be sure it was the one his own had dreamed of but never quite been able to make for their children.

o0o

Lonnie stood absolutely still, careful to cooperate, as she was scanned. This Jem'Hadar was pushy and demanding. Apparently he wasn't impressed with her position. Then he pronounced her clean and let them move beyond the door.

She and Jabara and a few others had spent the night preparing the bodies. They'd cut off the blood drenched clothes, and carefully saved and washed the personal items the victims had carried. The bodies had been cremated, but each would be saved in an urn for the family. They could say goodbye.

She was very tired and in the wrong mood for more bad news. Nobody could imagine anything *good* coming from one of these mornings.

They proceeded with caution, expecting more dead. But instead, sitting along the side of the building, was a stack of boxes. Suddenly energized, they moved faster, standing and studying their assumed bounty. There were stacks of smaller ones and a smaller group of larger boxes, one quite heavy. Relieved but cautious, she gave quiet instructions to look busy. There had been no hint that that was the reason for this walk in the outside air, and now they waited, not sure what to do.

The air was clean and fresh, but she wanted this over. She wanted the supplies inside the building, boxes open and being cataloged. It looked like a rather small pile, but medical supplies were running very low, and the broth wasn't much more than water now.

She could still smell the blood from the day before. Thirteen of their number had been executed. The Jem'Hadar standing guard could have been the ones who shot them. She waited quietly, keeping all traces of the revulsion she felt hidden away.

The Jem'Hadar sounded impatient. "These are you supplies. Get them inside."

Moving quickly, they each grabbed the smaller boxes, leaving them piled just inside the door. With the lack of food and sleep, a wave of sudden exhaustion hit her. But the larger boxes were heavy, and they worked together to lift and slide and push them inside, shoving the smaller boxes deeper into the hallway.

They'd have to step around them and climb over them to all get inside. And the Jem'Hadar hadn't given them permission. She wondered if the spatters on his boots were blood.

Unlike the previous guard, this one wasn't receptive to questions. So they stood near the door and waited.

Despite the close air, she wanted to see the door shut and especially this Jem'Hadar outside behind a locked door.

He pointed his rifle and his second did as well. Lonnie backed towards the door, heart pounding. One of the men was so pale she could see the fear.

Flattened against the open door, the rifles were lowered a little. "You shall receive weekly supplies as long as you cause no trouble." Then he pointed the rifle at the door. "Go."

She hurried inside, one at a time everyone stumbling over boxes to get to safety. It slammed shut as soon as the last of them cleared it.

She sat on the nearest box. Relief flooded her and she could hardly move. The smaller boxes were being moved deeper into the corridor and stacked. But they couldn't leave the boxes there and couldn't take all of them at once..

She took her time, collecting her thoughts, as the rest settled themselves. Her voice clear and even, not betraying any of the lingering nerves, she gave orders. "Get this to the basement storeroom. Use the back way. We can keep track of it down there."

The others nodded. She picked up a box and headed that way.

Jabara stayed back. "I'll watch things," she said.

She knew everyone was anticipating the contents. One box was quite solid and heavy. There was a list of names attached to the top. Two of the men carried it down the steps and put it on the table so it could be opened. But she left it, opening the small box she had brought first, suspecting it was medical supplies from the weight distribution.

She sliced it open with a cutter, the others dawdling. She should hurry them but instead had them reorganize the other boxes, bringing all the small ones to the table. Aside from food, she was most interested in the selection of medical supplies they had been granted. It would determine how many joined the four who died that night in the red section.

It was full of small bottles. Opening one, she sniffed and recapped it, but didn't bother to conceal the relief. The antiseptic wash might save a lot of lives if she could keep minor wounds from infecting. It could be used to wash their hands too. The slow trickle of water made that a worry.

She sat it on a table next to the far wall. All the medicine would go there. She hoped there would be something to put in the opposite pile.

Her orderly arrived balancing two small boxes. "We're trading off so one of us keeps an eye on it. I'm sure they've seen us. Jabara is keeping them from getting too far if they get curious."

She had him sit the boxes on the table. Both were heavy. She opened the first.

The tubes were small, but she'd never seen what was inside. But there was a label on the side. "Casaba jell concentrate," she said. "Not a bad idea."

He'd already opened the other one. It held rolled bandages, at least on the top. She moved them to one side. "What's this? she asked.

"It's a box," he said. The rest of the bandages were sat on top of the casaba jell. She held the box while he pried out the container in the bottom.

"A drug box," she said, a little surprised. She checked the contents and was a little disappointed. There wasn't a lot in it. But it was better than nothing.

The lock hadn't been engaged, but there was a small envelope with her name on it in the box. She ripped it open.

There was a proclamation. She didn't read it yet. The small key fit in the drug box. She could lock the scarce things away now.

It would make it a little easier. She noted there was only one key. She locked the box and put the key in her pocket. Later she'd find a cord so it would be safely around her neck instead.

The orderly was already gone. The lab tech returned with several boxes with general supplies. She'd need them but more medicine would be more appreciated.

It was perhaps half of what they'd normally get. While the next boxes were on their way, she read over the proclamation.

They were under house arrest, but then they already knew that. Marshal law was in effect and patients would only be permitted to be admitted if they could not be treated at home. She thought of the bodies left out in the square the day before. There were some which didn't qualify for either.

But the list went on. Rations would be resumed after three days. Now she was especially impatient about the rest. It was only the start of the third day. She assumed one of the boxes, or more, contained rations. They were free to divide them any way they wanted, but they got a third of the normal days meals.

Her stomach grumbled. She was very hungry, and it was hard to stop thinking of food in the rare moments she wasn't busy. One small meal wasn't going to help too much.

Willman had prepared a paper on the effects of malnutrition. She would have to review it again. Maybe the staff should too.

They'd be more familiar with it than they'd expected. But she reminded herself that They didn't have to send any supplies for the sick at all. Trapped inside, her staff and patients could be denied food entirely and not be able to do anything about it. There was always something worse.

She remembered how Bashir had told her how their usual policy was to deny all medical care, and wondered why they were so lucky. He'd also said rather distastefully that it didn't always apply to the "pets". Is that what they were now, just "pets"?

Willman had known it might come to this. His strict rules and clearly defined responsibilities had been hard, but now she was thankful. She had no intention of tolerating those who didn't follow her new rules either. At least, she thought, few would try. And Willman had taught her the lesson of how valuable an example could be if someone did.

More boxes arrived. They were left for her to open, and she shoved them in the approximate direction. Most were general supplies. The small box of soap was needed, though they didn't have enough water to bathe in. But hands could be washed.

She went back to the list. Rations for hospital staff would come in weekly deliveries. Those for patients would be transferred from the Residential section based on the number of patients. She wondered how they would do that and hoped someone would figure it out soon.

Her stomach was rumbling, small aches making it hard to concentrate. She hated the ration cubes alone, but awaited the first one with pleasant anticipation. No matter how hard they were, she'd gnaw them with pleasure.

But the two men dragged in the last box. It was the one with the names.

They all watched as she opened it. It was rations. But somehow, it didn't sound like enough.

"I think this is just for staff, not patients too," said the lab tech, studying the list. "That's all that's on this."

When Residential was granted supplies, they should have more to feed everyone. But in the meanwhile the small amount allotted to the staff would have to be shared.

The broth would have more flavor tonight. The patients that could eat solid food would get a little, but most of the rest would have to go to the staff.

They were exhausted. There was too much work and insufficient rest, and everyone was still in a state of shock over the new world they lived in. If they didn't get more to eat they might not be able to concentrate. Maybe tomorrow Residential would send them the patients portion, but she would not depend on it. Policy would have to be set today on how everything was handled. She kept no secrets. Everything was posted so there was no excuse not to know.

The others had gone. She surveyed their meager pile of goods and hardened herself for the evening. It was going to be very hard for everyone, but fatal for some of the patients. Those receiving medication which she did not have anymore would be moved across the room to red. There would more bodies tomorrow to deal with, but whatever was left might save someone in lesser distress. The time for nobility was done, and now all they could do was survive.

Then, in the corner of the box with the wrapped cubes she noticed a small box. She fished it out, tempted to take a ration but would not. She would wait until they'd been cooked down like everyone else. That was the only reasonable way of feeding everyone on so little. Cutting it open she found a name tag and pin. There was a tag as well. She was glad she was alone when she read the name. But she put the things back and closed up the box. The orderly was to return and take first shift as security guard and she needed to look composed.

She held the box, adding it to the drug box which would remain locked in her office, waiting for the orderly. She would keep it with her. He'd tried to tell her what it was like in that prison. If he was alive, if he came home, she'd have to see if he'd tell her again now that she could understand.

But that was later. Now, there were patients to check and forms to fill out. There were lab tests to perform and staff to assign. When they'd dragged him-when his bad leg bounced along the ground and she knew how bad the pain had to be, the numbness had begun. Now it was everything.

Somewhere inside she hoped he'd live. But she could not spare the energy now. He was gone. Willman was too. Both of them could be dead by now, if they were lucky, or die later after some extended misery. Like those lost to them past the line, they were dead to this world already. If he returned, she hoped she would still remember how to feel by then.

Holding the box, wondering if it being returned could be a hint he might too, she tried to hope. But all but a tiny glimmer was gone, and she shut that away. If he did it belonged to tomorrow but for her, for her staff and the patients who would live or die there was only today. She was in charge now, and as much of a doctor as she could manage. She could not spare anything for an unlikely hope. He had left her alone knowing how much she did not know.

Her stomach growled. It had been churning ever since the first night, and now the best they'd get was a little better flavor for the soup. Yawning, the long hours having caught up with her, she wondered if They intended to starve them into submission. Maybe the ones who's ashes sat on the morgue shelf were more lucky than they thought.

o0o

Julian stared at the walls. The cell was small. It hadn't been as dark when he'd been first dumped inside, but was growing shadowy now. The fabric he'd waded into a pillow was a loose coverall but there were no shoes. His leg was no longer numb, but having rested it, his leg did not hurt much, or not much more than he was used to. The place where the tag was inserted was sore, but that was hardly noticeable.

The bruises throbbed when he moved, but eventually when he was still the pain subsided. He was holding the coverall, having unfasten it to the waist, trying to dress. Bunching it in his hands, he managed to slide his good leg in a little, but had to lift the bad one to go any further.

Leaning forward, he ignored the pain as he slipped the other leg over his foot and lifted it enough to slide it up. The cell was tall enough to stand if he'd been able to, but he forced his legs up and pulled. Still only partially dressed, he collapsed back on the floor until the throbbing ebbed a little. But his stomach grumbled. And he was so thirsty it was impossible to think of anything else. Even the pain from trying to dress did not distract him enough.

Leaning forward, he was able to pull the garment up over his hips. But this cost another rest and the general level of misery rose higher. But the floor was too cold, and even if it was thin it was cover. Sitting up, he finished and a small measure of dignity was returned, for a price. But everything had a cost.

He slid himself to the wall, resting his back against it, trying to think. Water or streams or rain kept intruding on his thoughts. It had been a couple of days, unless they'd given him fluids some time when he was out. But in such a short while he'd lost track of time. Maybe it got worse each repeat of the nightmare.

He knew now that the Vorta was not going to give up. He doubted the Ag people would have the machine extract what they knew. I didn't really matter. They would serve as examples even if their masters were wrong. A few of them would go home, broken and shattered, to remind everyone.

They were useless other than as lessons. But there was a use waiting for the survivors. He knew that none of them would be alive and he'd be locked up inside some hideous box at 371 if there was not. He licked his dry lips, the skin tender and splitting a little. If the room was not so dark he would notice how blurry his vision was. His stomach hurt and if he could get his mind off water all he could think of was food.

But that was all temporary. The Vorta would not allow it to go too far. He just wondered what the price would be in the end.

The silence and dark were drawing him away, and he carefully slid to his side, resting the bad leg and allowing exhaustion to win.

o0o

Jadzia Dax lay on her side, the hard floor no longer noticed. The little room was warm enough. There was little light, but she could see the outline of the door. She lay quietly, comfortable in a deeply peaceful place.

It was done. The pain and suffering and death wasn't over. But for her it was. She'd die soon, thought she did not know how. She'd seen blood on the guard when they'd brought water the day before. She waited, calmly and without any fear, for her own execution.

She could feel Worf very near. Soon, they would be together. But he was dead. She could only be joined to him when she too had gone past life. The first day, after she'd been forced out of her bed, searched, and then dumped into the room they'd left her alone. She was thirsty but it didn't matter. She had found an even place on the floor and tried to sleep.

But he had taken her hand. She knew she wasn't sleeping. She could smell his scent in the room. 'I await you in Stovakor,' he said.

Then he was gone. The room was just a storage room made prison. But his scent remained.

Then she'd slept. A deep peace came over her and she hardly heard the door open and the water come. She did not immediately try to move or take a drink.

It didn't matter. If she died sooner she would be relieved. Death had waited just beyond the bend for so long she was used to it. She even dreamed of its release.

More water had come, and she had slept, Worf waiting. She would welcome the moment they were one and dreamed of him.

But the door opened again and this time the Jem'Hadar did not move away. "Get up," he gruffly ordered.

She rose slowly, stiff from the floor. She didn't hurry. But she felt no fear. They'd end the nightmare that had begun that day on the hill by the hospital.

But the morning sun showed a deserted square. There was a blood soaked spot near the main quarters, but nothing else to indicate how bad it might be.

"Come. You must follow," he grunted.

She was curious now. This wasn't the usual way to handle executions. She followed him past the buildings and to the bridge to the residential section.

There was an imposing looking gate. It was manned with sufficient guards to deter anyone from challenging them.

But there was no other barrier. A line of blue rods spread out from each side of the gate. It was opened and she followed him inside.

He stopped. "You or any of these people may not cross the blue line or you will be executed."

She nodded. Perhaps that is how she would die. But he moved on and she followed.

They stopped in front of a home in the front of Residential. It was meant for two people. The Jem'Hadar pushed open the door.

"This is your new quarters. Your possessions have already been moved. One room has been established as an office and you will find your forms there."

She was astonished. If she was to die, why would she need an office? The guard stood outside, the door still open. All of her things appeared to be there. They'd even been carefully moved.

"Will I find something explaining the situation?" she asked him.

"You are made the director of this detention area. Tomorrow a delivery of supplies and food will be sent. You must be ready."

"I'll need some help," she said.

"You may choose two to assist. I will bring them this afternoon."

He was waiting. She trusted Jackson and Emery. Would they still be here, or dead?

But she wrote their names and residential assignments on a sheet of paper and gave it to the guard.

"I will bring them," he said.

He shut the door.

She wandered around the quarters, considering everything. This was but a respite. Worf was in Stovakor. He'd know when she was coming.

The office had had the bed removed. A table and three chairs had replaced it, along with a shelf and another smaller table. On the table were several piles of forms.

She eased herself into the chair. It was not hers, but comfortable enough.

The top sheet defined the disaster that had befallen them. This section would be released from house arrest tomorrow. Then they would be allowed to move about inside the blue line without interference, so long as there was no trouble.

She would make sure that didn't happen. The next paragraph showed they were lucky.

Others were put on a third the normal rations. This section, as it had had no major violations, would get half.

She laid out the forms, starting to organize them. There were several lists as well, and an additional proclamation.

She scanned through it. Internal tags would now be required. They were being demoted in status to restricted colony. All children would be tagged before they reached one year old. No persons would be permitted to leave the colony unless under detention.

But when the Jem'Hadar were gone, and their little blue pickets pulled up, and no more bloody stains on the soil, these things would be easily accepted if they stayed away.

And there would be more, she thought. But it was distant, and not quite real. She had no connection to that time.

But she must to this one. Some part of it would release her, but first she must prove her worth to this place. Somehow, she was to make a difference here.

She moved the forms away, stacking the small piles carefully so they were in order. Then she took a blank sheet of paper and a pen to start her list of policies. She'd need more than Emery and Jackson, but they'd be her eyes and ears. There would have to be dependable security for the supplies, and especially the food. And the punishment would be severe for thieves.

Curzon was with her. He would not leave her alone. When she died, the many selves within Dax would die with her. Even if there was a doctor capable of transferring the symboiant, there were no Trills there to receive it.

There was a pitcher of water on the table, and she poured some into the small cup next to it. She'd had only a little before. She must not fall ill before her time. There was one last purpose in her life, and she must fulfill it. Only then, when she had finished her role in this nightmare could she find the peace she so desperately wanted.

But for now, there was work to do. There would be a meeting later. Perhaps the others could tell her what the papers had left out and how many others of their number were with Worf by now.

o0o

Carl was holding Calla, rocking her gently as her mother slept. It was afternoon. Jeffrey was smashing his blocks against the wall, first erecting boxy targets to knock apart.

He wished that he had something to smash, but reminded himself that it would only kill his family. Calla was a little cranky from the isolation, but reveling in all the attention her father had lavished on her the last day.

He remembered sitting on the deck terrified the children would be taken. He'd known then that nothing mattered more in his whole life than they be as safe as he could make them.

Others had set these horrors in place. He had watched as Sisko had tried to stop them, but it had been too little and too late. Perhaps he should have acted as he did, in the end, much earlier and with more finality. The ones who brought this on them would die, but would not bring back those who'd fallen behind the blue line. The guilty should have been found, a long time before, and given over to Them.

They deserved to die, or whatever fate their masters had in mind. They owed the ones the Jem'Hadar had shot and those butchered in the square. They owed all the hungry children and the ones who someone else had taken home that day. They owed everyone for the misery which had just begun.

If by chance, they had missed someone, Carl thought he might want to be sure they met the same fate as Jeffrey's block men, hammered into pieces.

Calla was waking. She'd start to squirm soon. But he enjoyed the brief moment before the toddler took over, as she was telling him something in babbles he was sure had meaning to her.

"Da," she said. Then she demanded, again, "Da, da, da."

He kissed her. She giggled. She wanted to be tickled. He didn't want to wake her mother, exhausted from the lack of food, but joy was a miracle in this place and had to be taken.

With a light tickle under her chin, she dissolved in giggles. He even smiled. It was almost enough to forget the ache in his stomach.

Calla squirmed off his lap, crawling like a streak to her brother and his blocks.

Carl wished the moment would go on forever. She threw blocks at the wall even after all the block men were down. But Jeffrey was angry. She was just having fun.

He was watching them when the door was pushed open. Two Jem'Hadar were standing there.

"Come," he was ordered.

Jeffrey stared at them, a block in his hand. Carl was terrified, with the rage in his child that he'd try to beat down the Jem'Hadar as he did his block men. But Calla crawled to him, disturbed by the stranger.

He nudged Cheryl awake and she sat with a start. He picked up Calla and gave her to her mother.

Heart pounding, he gave them all one last look back.

Stepping out the door, he closed it himself. "Follow," he was ordered.

o0o

Catherine wished the child would stop crying. She held the blanket she'd made for Tessie and could not bear the sound. The three widows had banded together out of loneliness. The child's mother had tried to comfort her, but she was only two and she was hungry. Catherine and her friend had retired to the room they shared, and tried to shut out the sound.

It wasn't just the child. The girl was Bajoran. Her mother had grown up during Cardassia's reign of terror. She had been grateful that her child would not have to know that kind of life. And then they'd come to Cryus. When Catherine had joined the household, shortly after losing her husband and child, the bitter knowledge of *why* had begun to sink in. But Darya understood. It had made the devastating knowledge a little easier to bear. A few months later Tina had moved in when an infection took her husband, and the little girl was loved by all of them now.

Catherine couldn't sleep. She was tired from the hunger and fear, but especially from the thoughts that had been filling her mind as she held the blanket. She had woke with the thought in her head, and now it haunted her.

Maybe it was better that Tessie had not lived to know this world. She listened to the child cry, hearing the Jem'Hadar moving around outside. One of the senior staff and his family lived near and she had watched them as he clutched his children that horrible day. He was afraid. But there was a hard look in his eyes. The transformation had already come to him. Darya held her daughter, quiet and tense, as if she already knew this world. He did too now.. Their children would share more than either wanted them too.

She held the empty blanket, ashamed of her thoughts. She'd watched the girl as she was shot, the fear so terrible she was frozen in place, the shock as the rifle had fired and she had faltered, then falling so suddenly, but somehow still in slow motion. And the blood as it spilled was as final an execution as Tessie and her father had suffered. There was no difference other than in the method. She hated them already. Now it was growing refined. How could she *excuse* the execution of her child when she hated them so much for it?

Perhaps Darya had seen her eyes, putting the child in her arms to carry as they had moved down the pathway and the water was picked up. She had entered, the door shutting as she placed the child in her bed. Then she had stumbled to her own, shaking and ready to collapse.

Except for the movement of the guards outside and the child there had been silence since then. But she knew that Darya had spent all night with child and she was tired. Tina had cried herself to sleep and was laying awake now, listening to the movement outside, not even moving out of fear. But Catherine was restless. She sat up, folding the blanket, placing it on her pillow where she kept it, and silently leaving the room.

The water was getting low, but there was to be more tomorrow. She took a small glass for herself. Then tapped on Darya's door before she entered.

Darya was asleep, finally worn out from the long night. She picked up the little girl, soothing her hair and kissing her nose, and got her attention. Settling in the main room, giving the child water and teasing her, she finally quieted.

She had her hand around Catherine's arm, firmly holding on, as she settled in the lap and fell asleep. Catherine pulled the blanket left on the couch to her and then dragged it over them as she settled carefully on her side, but the child did not wake.

She kissed the girl, and felt her slide closer. Catherine closed her eyes, a peace descending over her as the child relaxed her grip and curled comfortably into the snuggle. She loved Tessie, still, even if she had not even been allowed to be born. But right then, this child needed her and for a time she would be complete.

o0o

Michael was reading a book, sitting by the light coming in the window. Shandra and the baby were both asleep. She was staying in bed, and he was doing everything for Tasha but feeding her.

The little girl they had taken in was curled up on the makeshift bed they'd made for her. If when the doors opened her mother was dead, he thought that Shandra would offer her a home. Since they were locked in, it was impossible to know if those detained had been released or not.

The children helped drive the horrible images away. He was looking forward to tomorrow and being able to go outside. But he didn't ever want to see that bright blue line against the natural grey's and pale greens of this planet.

He'd always see it stained with blood.

The slam on the door woke Shandra and Tasha started to cry.

The Jem'Hadar had rifles pointed at him.

"You are not in your assigned quarters. Leave immediately."

He was afraid they'd hurt the others, and he hurried out. The door was shut behind him.

They stopped, the rifle held above his head. He didn't resist.

The breath was knocked out of him when the one guard slammed his rifle into Emery's stomach. Then the other smashed his into Michael's back when he was bent over.

He landed in the gritty pathway, breathing hard and afraid to move.

A boot was visible in front of his face. Then it withdrew.

"Up!" he was ordered. "Walk now."

He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pain and how hard it was to breath. He stumbled after them to the house the two men had occupied a few days before.

"Inside. You are assigned to the director."

He opened the door, entering with great caution. Carl Jackson caught him as he almost fell.

Dax shut the door. She checked him over, Carl supporting him. "Anything broken?" she asked.

He shook his head no, his breathing slowing. "They put me back there and then they . . . . " he said with a gasp.

He was led to a chair and collapsed into it, the others watching while he caught his breath.

Dax looked concerned. "Do you need to lie down?"

"No," he said, softly, starting to react to the suddenness of the attack. "Just give me a few."

"Do you want to stay there, with Shandra?" she asked.

"Of course. Tasha is so little."

"I'll fix it. I have to fill out a list of residents and their quarters. We'll transfer you." She made a note to herself. "I'll make sure to notify them that you are being transferred but it might be better to go to your old quarters tonight."

"If I have to," he said.

He kept staring at her. There was such calm in her movements, and no sign of fear. He wondered how she managed it but welcomed the strength she radiated.

"We have a little girl with us. Her mother was detained, I think in that forcefield. If she's gone Shandra said she'd take care of her."

"They weren't there when I was brought," said Jackson sharply. "We'll match her back up with mom."

Michael was relieved, but Jackson's abruptness was disturbing.

"Do you know what happened to the rest, the Chief and all?" he asked.

She was so calm, and perfectly composed. "No. I was locked up early and didn't see anything. Could you tell me what happened here?"

Carl stared at the door. "We saw them murder eight of us. They pushed them across that blue line and shot them. And they kept about half of us outside all night and half the next day. I hope they sent them home. I can't say for sure since we've been under curfew since then."

She closed her eyes for a second, taking a slow breath. "We must make sure no more of that happens. We have half the normal rations coming tomorrow, and the hospital only gets a third."

Emery slumped down in his chair. "Half?" he asked, thinking of Shandra and especially Tasha.

"Is better than a third," said Carl.

He didn't like the look in Carl's eyes.

"I'm working with you?" he asked.

"We'll need others. But we have a shipment coming in tomorrow, and before that time comes we have to have all of it planned out, especially where and how we plan to handle it."

Carl helped him up. His shoulder stung and his stomach ached. But if they could feed people they could make things a little better.

"Do we get to use the community soup?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Should we require everything go there? It would go further."

"Then we have to," said Carl firmly.

Emery wasn't sure. "Not many will opt out. I don't see why we have to make them. We didn't before."

Carl straightened a little. "That was before."

Michael stared at him. It had sounded so cold. Dax didn't even react. She was so calm you'd have never guessed there were Jem'Hadar waiting to shoot them.

"We must always remember that," she said, but it was resigned.

He took the water she offered. He was keeping most of what they had for Shandra. Dax wore a weary, but resigned look. He'd seen it before when there had been bad news.

"We just need to be careful," he added.

She pushed a stack of papers over to them. She'd written out notes on a security system and other plans.

He pushed Shandra and the baby from his mind. They'd rest while he was gone. He still didn't like the hard look in Carl's eyes, but understood.

There were things to be done. He'd tell Shandra the good news tonight.

"Does that mean half-rations for babies?" he asked.

"If they're on my list," said Dax.

Shandra would get enough to eat. She'd have to eat Tasha's half ration, but they'd be fine.

He picked up the paper and turned a page. Glancing over all the work, he shifted his sore back to a more comfortable position. There was a lot to do. But he'd be keeping his people alive. That mattered more than bruises and fear and anything else.

o0o

Cary ignored the tap. He knew his roommate was going to sneak in if he didn't open it, but pretended to be asleep.

He was waiting for them to try for the water. He'd left them each a glass the day before, waiting for them when they'd been released. And next to it was a note explaining there were two bottles hidden in the two rooms they could get to. They would have to find them before the next drink. They had interrupted his rest with their noise but had not yet tried the door, but were probably getting desperate. Watching, he didn't intend to let them near.

The door opened. The woman was in the lead. She was smaller and faster. But he had the bottle hidden. The one they could see, partially covered, was empty.

He watched them as they snatched it. They looked disappointed, and she glared at Cary.

He was having trouble staying "asleep". It was pleasing that they looked so glum.

He'd give them some water later. But he'd wait awhile.

They slipped out, trying to put it back but not quite managing.

Once the door was closed, he rolled over to see how bad a job they'd done.

He needed the satisfaction. Thanks to them they had spent the night in the cold, terrifying pen. But what he really needed was to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes the girl stood frozen in place, just before they fired.

She would stay herself for a time, then her face would change. She'd be his wife, begging him to come home. But if he did he'd die. But did it really matter if he kept this miserable life, without her?

Then it was his roommate, begging for forgiveness. The woman lay crumpled at his feet, blood pouring from her side with the gash of a bayonet. He'd looked in their room the morning he'd been returned and found the hidden food. He ate it, but knew they might all have died on the other side of the line.

Maybe he *wouldn't* give them any water after all. They must have discovered the food was gone already. Maybe they couldn't sleep either.

He stared at the ceiling. His job had made life tolerable before, even when Sisko had put them under the stringent curfew. He could always tell himself that he wasn't working for murders. He was building homes for his own. As long as he didn't have to head a department, he could live with the pin.

But the girl's eyes looked at him, and he saw an image in them he didn't like.

His roommate had betrayed him, but he had done the same to everyone. Before, maybe it had been okay to run things for the enemy. Before, it was always a good excuse to say it was better than having them do it.

But they came anyway. Every report he'd written was for them. Every day he'd spent planning they'd been pulling all the strings. She stared at him now, even in daydreams. How could he ever touch another pen to another form with her eyes reflecting his betrayal.

Tomorrow, they'd have free run of this prison. Someone would have to keep things in order. Someone would have to sort and dispense the food. There would still be reports if it wasn't the Jem'Hadar.

But it wouldn't be Cary Larson. He was done bring a puppet. If he was ordered to take back his pin, he'd refuse. His life mattered to him, but not so much he could look in the girl's eyes and lie to himself anymore.

o0o

Dan took the bowl from the server, trying not to look too close. She had a mark on her hand, a different one. They made serving their working animals punishment, he knew, but nervous about getting the second bowl, the first one passed to Megan, he'd caught her eyes. They were not allowed to look up, to make contact of any kind with their customers. He was sure someone was watching and she'd be punished. He hadn't asked if he could stand in line twice, but since Megan couldn't, the ankle still swollen, there was no other option.

But the girl should have looked through him, he knew. Just as they were the beasts in the corner, the servers were less, much less. He didn't say much to anybody, having learned in the camps on the other side of the line it was the best way to learn new things, but knew he never wanted anyone he cared about to wear that mark. They were called bonded, and they were by definition state property. So were the rest, but at least they weren't so expendable.

The server held out the next bowl, the line almost done, and busied herself with her work, as he walked away. But Greson stopped him. "You can only take one bowl. They'll report trouble and it will come back on all of us."

"My bedmate can't walk. And she has to have food. So someone has to get it for her. Perhaps since its unusual, you should."

He didn't move on. Greson just stared at him. "She may hobble over herself last so she doesn't have to wait tomorrow. She has work too. If she can't do it and you claim a connection, you do it."

He was already planning to. Outside, the doctor could exempt her. Inside the doctors word was of no force. "No, she can't do that." Dan continued to stand and stare. "You would deny her food? Even the miserable wretches they reduce to the bottom eat full meals. You know that."

He was right, of course. He'd worked next to a supply crew one day, and they'd had a mistake in the shipment and there wasn't enough. Whoever made the mistake was in trouble, and they were all scared. Even the ones who got used until they were used up were fed. He didn't know why, but people who weren't malnourished were far less likely to get sick. Megan had said a lot of those who left with her didn't make it to the surface. If that was good or bad he didn't know, but somebody was scared. He thought they probably had a reason to be.

Greson was still blocking him, so Dan started eating his mush in front of him. "You drop any of that and you'll pay for it," he finally said, walking away from Dan.

Dan carried the rest to his blankets, sitting among 'family' to enjoy it better.

"Be careful with him, he knows people," said one of the women, Megan's friend, he thought.

The refugee camp had had rules too, but those who had the right friends bent them at will. "I know, but he'll make a mistake one day, and his friends won't be able to help."

Megan had finished and was already laying down. He finished his mush, collecting the bowls. Robbie followed him. "Soon, I think," she said quietly. "He's getting way over confident. You work near him a lot. Keep watch." She continued past him, moving towards the bins they had to empty and clean after dinner. But while Dan did his and Megan's work that night, Greson watching him, he was almost looking forward to the day now, since they'd be very close and the blackies Greson thought he was safe from would be watching too, and eventually he was going to slip up. If Dan could find a way to help things along a bit, maybe his own could move down the way sooner where at least everyone wore the same mark.

Greson would only wish he was that lucky to be a slashie then.

end, Legacy, Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 4


	6. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 5

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 5

Carl Jackson stood on the walkway between the two tiers, watching the guards moving near the edges. His gaze did not rest on the moving Jem'Hadar, but rather the small line of blue poles placed in the ground. They called it the Blue line. It was easier than calling it a Death line.

He would never forget the executions. It had only been four days, but for him everything had changed. Since Dax had appointed he and Emery as her assistants, he'd hardly been home.

She and her crew had been granted free movement around the Residential section if it was needed to complete their organization. Carl had learned to knock softly and introduce himself, then tell them he was going to open the door when he was sent to contact those Dax wanted for her unofficial help. But it still felt odd to be outside when everyone else was still confined.

Dax had found an empty house near enough the loading point for the supplies, one of those intended for two. Its former occupants were dead. The plan was to use it to store the supplies, and appoint one person caretaker, responsible for them to remain untouched. There would be other security, some already recruited, but the position of caretaker remained unfilled.

He had been given permission to contact all the staff of Supply and Ops they considered sufficiently trustworthy to find one of them who wanted to move. He wanted to find someone quickly and be able to go inside again where he could feel busy over singled out in a far worse way than a pin might.

After the extended curfew was lifted when the supplies were stored that morning, Dax was going to make a few announcements. One was about the soup, for they'd decided the pot was now mandatory, but the most immediate concerned housing.

They required a list of where everyone lived. There had been one before, but people moved out of relationships or in with friends. The ID tags on the Jem'Hadar's record of that day had not matched the residents whereabouts and that needed to be corrected. They did not care how, but when she turned in the list, they were committed. It was in effect an implied stated marriage if a couple wished to stay together. It was due tomorrow morning. If anyone wanted to move they had the afternoon. After that, the acceptable reasons for changing your address were few and drastic.

Enough people for normal security had been found. It was to be low key and relatively

private. There was no need for anything resembling Sisko's little raids now. The Jem'Hadar, standing off to the side, were ample reminder.

Next on his list of potential caretakers was Cary Larson. He'd been detained over water, but had otherwise been acceptable. Carl knocked softly on the door to not panic them too much. Announcing himself, he explained he was sent by Dax. If they didn't open the door he would be coming in.

He didn't have to this time. Two people were standing there, half the room dismantled, when he looked in. The woman glared at the closed bedroom door on the other side. "We've been kind of busy," she explained.

He decided not to ask, but thought this a good possibility. They were obviously looking for something. Larson had received water but the container wasn't anywhere in evidence.

"I need to see Cary Larson," he told them.

He could tell from the looks that it wasn't a happy household. The woman drilled holes in his door with her eyes. "The rat's in there. You'll probably have to knock yourself since he isn't talking to us."

Carl stepped past and over and around the mess all over the floor. He tapped on the door. "Cary, it's Carl Jackson. I have a proposal for you."

The door opened. Cary gazed around the room, then gave his disgruntled room mates a satisfied look. "It appears you made a mess," he observed.

The woman gave him the evil eye. "Big surprise. Just wait. You'll have to leave eventually."

He said nothing, but motioned for Carl to come inside.

In his room, everything was very neat. The water allotment was sitting on the table. It appeared to be much more full than it should be. "I take it that's what they're looking for."

"Not exactly. There's a couple of bottles hidden in the room. When they find them I'll fill them. They're also trying to find the food they hid that we're all lucky the Jem'Hadar didn't find."

"I take it they won't." Carl suppressed a shiver from the memory of his own last meal.

"I ate it when I got back in the morning. But I'm pretty sure there's more. I put the dishes on their bed to remind them of why I wasn't in the mood to share my cup. But it looked like the Jem'Hadar left it there."

"Sounds like you'd like to move," observed Carl.

"When we get sprung from this I'm going to. I might even leave the water for them."

"It's back on outside. They can fill their bottle themselves today. But I wouldn't trust them for a moment if I had to leave." Carl watched as Cary surveyed his room.

"I know. But I told them if we weren't getting water they shouldn't find any. They even said they'd take care of it."

Carl sat down on his chair. Cary was standing and watching the door, probably waiting to open it and surprise them.

"We have room available."

Larson sat on his bed. "You offering it to me?"

"I'm hoping. We're getting supplies today. You'll be sharing with them. Mostly, you just keep an eye on our supplies. It shouldn't take more than the one room to store them."

Larson stiffened. "You mean work for Them."

"No. Us. The guards are on the other side of the line. We both know that if we don't keep real close track of supplies we won't have any left."

Cary turned very pale, looking across the room as if he was seeing a ghost. "There was a girl. They hit her high and she bled to death in front of me. When they offered a deal I took it and they picked me. I carried her body to the hospital so I could go home early. But I still see her."

Carl didn't feel much empathy. "We all had to watch that."

"You didn't have to touch them. She was dead when I carried her there. I can still feel how cold she was." Cary looked down at the floor.

Carl moved the chair closer, where he could look Cary in the eyes. "You didn't have to do that. You took their deal."

"You weren't there. It was so cold and the field around us had already killed someone. A lot offered but they only picked a few."

Carl couldn't picture it. But he thought Cary could be convinced to move anyway.

"And we have a lot of people who'd love to live with the supplies in the next room. But we need someone we can *trust*."

"After what's happened it's different. I wouldn't let anyone steal anything, but its too close to a pin now."

Carl continued in his theme. There was a loud crash as they dropped something outside. "Look, you trusted *them*. What do you think they're going to do when you go out for lunch? It's *them* we have to keep out of the supplies."

Cary stood and started pacing. Carl could tell he was close. "I know. What do you plan to do when you catch them? Toss them over the line?"

"No. But I'll bet there's a few that might. Look, you don't have to worry about that. All your doing is living in your own quarters which just happen to be shared with supplies. I know, whatever you think of the rest, that you'll watch for us. That's *all* you have to do. No meetings, no reports, nothing."

The two outside were arguing now. They couldn't find the bottles and he was accusing her of missing them.

"She's gonna yell at him now. She always does. Then she threatens to leave and he threatens to throw her out and then they tear off each others clothes and have sex. Loud sex." Cary looked forlornly at the door and the noise. "You sure this is the only way I have to get away from them?"

'There's no where else to go. The other empties are having families in single units moved to them. The single units are having extra personal that used to live up the hill moved in. Its supplies or them," he said, pointing at the door, as outside, he screamed at her that he'd personally toss her out the door.

Cary sat again, defeated. One of them threw something. "Wait a little bit. They'll both be sorry and I can get my stuff out without having to look at them."

"I'll help you move it," offered Carl.

"No. I need to do that myself. Just leave a few boxes. I don't have much."

Something smashed. "I'm sorry," said a voice outside. "I didn't think he'd have hid them there."

Cary poured Carl a glass of water. "Maybe I'll need a broom too."

Carl took it and drank. He'd been up most of the evening and gotten up before dawn. After the supplies were received and stored he could go home and sleep.

"We'll have them clean it up. We might have to move someone in here so they'd better have it finished first." Carl added, slowly, "If I could think of anybody I'd stick with them."

They listened to the conversation. "I didn't mean to break it, really I didn't," he apologized.

She was quiet. "I know. I didn't either."

Silence ensued and their door closed. Cary was still sitting there, looking very lost. "Think of it this way," Carl said. "Supplies are very quiet and never break anything."

But Cary was soon busy sorting his few things. "Maybe I can sleep," he muttered as outside he laughed and she screamed.

"I'll get you a couple of boxes before they get done."

Cary only nodded, but Carl's long day was almost done and he could go home soon.

o0o

Before Carl was sent home to rest, he and Emery had been sent to knock softly on doors and send people out for water. They looked unnerved but relieved, and since nobody had told them if they could stay out most took their water inside and shut themselves in again. But the few who hadn't were ordered inside when the supplies were beamed in. Carl had been sent home finally and Emery had replaced him as authorized door knocker. While the beam in happened, they sat waiting in the office for the all clear, the crew already assembled with them.

Dax would need both of her assistants alert and rested. There was no need for both to be working at the same time.

A small crew of former assistants had been formed to move the supplies. Larson had already moved in. Jackson was probably already asleep for a nap before their first meal of the day.

There was no real rush to move the boxes quickly with everyone still inside. But they were probably growing impatient again and the sooner the supplies were stashed the better. It hadn't taken very long. First, it was to be moved into the larger room to see what was there.

She sent Emery to start knocking on doors after that. They could fill their water if they hadn't yet, and stretch a little but were to go to the edge of the upper deck and wait after that was done. He'd just returned.

She let the others open the boxes. Larson was standing in his doorway, just watching. "Doesn't look like much," he observed.

"It's packed pretty tight," said Nog. She watched as the Ferengi took a quick count of rations in the box. "I think there should be five more," he added.

The box was put inside the room. Nog started looking for the others. He opened each in turn and checked. In a few minutes, he'd found all the rations and they were being stored safely with the first.

Larson stepped out. "Ugh, what are you planning to do about breakfast?"

Jadzia looked around the room. "We are doing soup. I need help setting up the pot so we can get something prepared."

He sighed. "I guess I could help. Just don't appoint me to anything."

"Certainly. Michael has that responsibility. Anyone who wants can volunteer. Beyond the staff, it's your choice if you want to help or not."

Carl had told her about his reluctance, and his room mates. Officially, he held no position, though in time that might have to change. By then hopefully he would be used to the idea.

Emery was busy getting out a list. "We need to figure out how much of this goes up the hill," he said. "Then, of course, how we get them there."

"Their list is on my desk," she replied. "Start counting out today's total for everybody. We'll pull them later."

Larson followed Emery into the room, carrying an empty box. The rest of the supplies were being sorted carefully by Nog and the two others.

"What's our count?" she ask Nog, directing the others.

"It looks like half of everything." The little Ferengi hesitated a little. Half would be very hard on them. But it was much better than a third, she reminded herself.

"We should make sure that doesn't change," she said.

o0o

Jadzia Dax was very calm. She was going to die. She accepted that without argument. But now, she had her last duty to perform.

Assembled before her were all the residents of Cyrus not missing or under house arrest. They'd had no food for days. They'd witnessed murders staged for their benefit. She studied them first, measuring the changes.

They were afraid. She'd had them sit in the middle, away from the guards and the line. She stood fairly near, on a little rise by the hills. Her small staff was with the others. She did not want to mark them as privileged.

They were so quiet. No children were allowed to wander. Everyone held firmly to their families fearing something would tear them away.

She knew she was alive to make sure that didn't happen. Ben had pushed and threatened and become the enemy. It hadn't worked. She needed to be what he'd been on that day he'd spoken as the Emissary.

She was surrounded by calm and strength. A few feet away were Jem'Hadar who would kill her should she step too far. But she ignored them. They only mattered if someone crossed the line.

"We received a shipment of supplies today," she said. "This must serve for the next month. All rations of food and other items for this section have been reduced to one-half what we were receiving. In addition, we are denied access to any of our stored goods, including that which was harvested this fall. As a result, you will get used to hunger."

She watched as they pulled family closer and looked away. "But consider this. Other areas are only receiving one-third rations. They are being fed on a weekly or daily basis. Should They be displeased, the next day's meal might not come. Do not dwell on the fear or the hunger. Remember, those here are very fortunate. And also remember that our good fortune could disappear just as quickly as the other's meals should we not comply with the rules which govern this area."

She watched as they looked at the blue line. She knew they all would remember the sight of eight of their number shot to death for something that they might well have done themselves any other day.

"You may leave your quarters at dawn and must be inside after dark. We will have a small crew to prepare meals which I have been permitted to break curfew. Water to your quarters has been cut off, but it is available outside and you may fill your containers for the night. But food is *not* to be saved inside your quarters. It will be dispensed and eaten on this deck. This applies to myself and my small staff as well."

She was absolutely calm. They were all watching her. She sensed a small bit of relief in their faces. They were traumatized and hurt. She-and Curzon-knew they'd follow anyone who promised a little hope.

"As for food, we will use a community pot. Today's is being prepared now. We will serve two meals today, a light lunch and a more filling dinner as it has had longer to cook. Tomorrow, we will serve breakfast as well. In order to do this we will need volunteers. If you wish to help, please see Michael Emery. This is up to you entirely, and no commitment will be asked beyond what you are willing to offer."

The mention of food had peaked their interest. Near the supplies, the crew was starting the days meals, and people were staring that way.

"If you are ill and need medical attention, you'll be allowed to go to the hospital with escort for treatment. Those hospitalized will have their rations follow them, and one adult will be allowed as an attendant for any patients needing one. But you will be under the same rules as Medical, which means you will be under house arrest during your time there."

She hoped they wouldn't avoid the hospital and its devastation. But she would not force them to do anything. The murderers had done that.

"We will be left alone here. Keep control over your children and pay attention to where they go. Anyone who crosses the blue line will die. Remember that. No one wants to see more of what has been these last days."

They were watching her with rapt attention. Her voice wasn't loud or abrasive. Her manner wasn't abrupt. She might have said that it would end and they'd be alone again, but she could not make that promise. And even if she believed that day would come, life would never return to what it had been. Once they'd been warned and the fear had been planted deep inside, there would be other uses for them.

In a way, she was making it possible. But she would keep them alive. Even damaged, they were fated to survive.

"There is one other matter. I must submit an updated list of your choice of residences. Each of you needs to list your names, including babies and unborn children, and your address. Once you have done this you must stay there. You'll need to do this before receiving your dinner tonight, so make your decisions before then."

She was sure there were those on the brink of coming together or moving apart. They had the afternoon to decide. She hoped they all made the right choices.

"That is all for now. News will be posted in the morning when there is something new. Go and rest, sit in the sun and be grateful for your luck. And remember, it is up to you to insure it does not disappear."

They weren't sure they could go, but she stepped away towards her office, deliberately skirting the edge of the line. The guards on the other side stiffened as she passed. She knew she was tempting fate, but kept going past her new quarters, circling the entire space. Calm and composed, she would be the strength they could see. Perhaps if Benjamin had stayed the Emissary, he might still have been there to lead his people.

o0o

The Jem'Hadar waiting for orders, watching their prisoners, did not notice the small creature that lurked in the tall grasses behind them. He was not worried about them. Their captives had been caught raiding supplies, mostly Bajoran but not all. All of them were hungry, though. He knew his small form wouldn't last long if they noticed. He could morph, still, but it was getting harder and took more energy. He couldn't run and change form and escape, so he hid.

He'd gone further than usual on his information gathering journey, safe so long as some animal didn't catch him, or one of the sort the Jem'Hadar had captured. Things in Narven's area, if that was all you knew, were deceptive. There was no one there but Jem'Hadar and Vorta. They had already wiped away most of the population, and thus there was little to interest their rivals. But here, just a border away, the Jem'Hadar were vanishing. They still patrolled distant areas, but their prisoners would not be executed or starved. They would be given over to the all too solid bodied men in the black uniforms to deal with.

The prisoners were thieves, intending to supply some local boss who had however temporarily carved out his spot. Their bounty of food would have been used to enforce his power. But now he'd have nothing, and his victims might even welcome CA. The Jem'Hadar would be leaving once the prisoners were given over, and move the towards the same area he was going. They would never suspect that one of their gods was crawling in the bushes.

Odo was on his way home, having infiltrated into the area where the Jem'Hadar themselves had disappeared. CA would not waste perfectly useful labor, even if they were going to make them slaves. They would probably welcome Narven and his band if Narven didn't just make them his new enemy, and the survivors would meet the same fate at the prisoners sold to CA.

He hadn't made his way that far, but heard word of a slave province, new bodies from off Bajor of multiple species brought there and forced into a caste system. And that it was run, entirely, by CA. Kira had been 'cooperating' with Narven to keep him and his men busy, but harmlessly. Odo had gone looking for food, but had found something far more valuable instead.

Some sort of vehicle arrived, his amplified senses hearing every word. The prisoners and the food they'd stolen somewhere else were sold to fulfill some sort of deal. With the merchandise hustled inside the ground transport, the Jem'Hadar First waited for them to leave before telling his squad the White would be dispensed by the Vorta as soon as they got it to him.

He could guess what the hapless thieves had paid for now.

With much on his mind, Odo waited until the noise disappeared, and made his way to the cover of the thicket, desperately needing to regenerate and rest. He crawled into a crevice, digging it deeper, and allowed sleep to release the form he could not so easily release himself. But now he must get back and warn them. Strength ebbing, his return to his natural state took longer this time, the pain in his borrowed form greater. There wouldn't be too many more long journeys like this, he thought. But the wind was blowing and he could hear the gravel hitting the rock and thought that if he needed more time, at least there, the bush would cover him. But his next creature would be small and fast and *inedible* or he thought he'd never make it back at all.

o0o

Cary sat on the bench, the ladle in his hand. There were two pots, one boiling with a brisk plumb of steam, cooking tonight's dinner. The other, smaller one had the half-cake ration each person received, and had been boiled first. They were simply split and dropped inside the water. By the time lunch came, they'd be softened enough to chew easily.

There wasn't anything to flavor them, but nobody would mind. His job was to dispense the broth into a bowl and add the half-cube. Each had been given a bowl and when done it went into the tub of hot water near the ledge where seating had been created for dinner.

There would be no more seconds. Someone was watching to make sure no bowls were taken home.

Dax offered her bowl. He dipped the broth and her half-cake and she smiled.

He hadn't seen a smile in a long time. "Thank you, Cary," she said.

He'd worked in Ops and there was little of that either.

He didn't know why he'd volunteered. Maybe the thought of sitting in that room any longer was impossible. But as she walked away, he knew.

He wanted to help. She was different than the rest, so calm and pleasant. She never resorted to threats or anger. She quietly appealed to reason. Her calmness, even with the Jem'Hadar visible near the blue line, helped keep things in perspective.

But she was distant, too. It was as if she was only a visitor, and would leave soon. He didn't want her to go. After the Chief's grim meetings, and the arrogance of the pin-wearers she was astonishing.

He'd watched them as the boxes were opened and stored, and the gloom had started to lift. He didn't want anything to do with his former roommates. But keeping guard on supplies wasn't much better. There were no reports and he held no official rank, but he still had to watch. He had a pad of paper and pen to keep track of everyone, no matter what sort of permission they had, that entered the storeroom. He had to check their identification and see some thing official if it wasn't Jackson or Emery or a few others.

It was close enough. If it hadn't been impossible he'd have considered going back. But Jackson had mentioned they'd found someone in need of a room, and his old one was filled. But now, sitting on the deck dispensing the soup, he didn't feel like that. His customers came up slowly, hesitating as if it wasn't quite real. They presented bowls, holding them very still, and he was careful not to spill a drop. He'd already eaten, and it was hard to look at all the food knowing he'd had his share. They moved away carefully, carrying their treasures as if they were worth more than the finest of latinum.

Because it was. The broth was weak and the cakes undercooked, but after days without it was the finest delight.

He did something else, something he'd learned from her. When they came to him he smiled. It had been an eternity since he'd had even the smallest of reasons. But they smiled back sometimes, and he politely greeted them too, wishing them a good meal.

Never mind that *any* meal would be good then. For he knew there were different kinds of enemies. One stood on the other side of the blue line, watching and waiting to kill. That could not be changed.

Another was sitting a little ways away, the woman glaring at him. He'd left the rest of the water with a note saying simply, "Your share." He was hungry, but would take no more than his portion. He knew they would not have been so considerate. He was the guardian at the gate and would keep them away from the little flat, chewy treasures in the keep.

The other he'd banished that day. The aides and assistants now gone or imprisoned had kept to themselves. He'd been one too. He'd looked upon the rest as somehow less important than himself. But today he'd made up for it. When he smiled at them, he opened the door. When he spoke to them, he joined with their existence.

Jadzia had been gentle about it, but they'd been warned. Her crew were not isolated or special. They were no different than the rest, slowly waking from a nightmare into a different one. But a few days before had been stunned horror. Now there was resignation and the sudden, wrenching acceptance that the world had once again shifted and changed and nobody cared what they thought. But the soldiers along the line were the enemy. Her crew were not. They would be polite and helpful and show every consideration to the wounded who showed no wounds.

Tomorrow, he knew, it would be different. They'd start to remember the spices that made dinner extra good, or the bits of vegetable that gave a special taste. But they'd eat, just the same. And he promised himself that no matter how long he had to sit and dispense soup to them, he would never let go of the smile and the greeting and the gift of caring.

o0o

The cell was absolutely dark when Julian woke from a fitful sleep, a velvety blackness that pushed against him. His mind searched for some hint of brightness, even a brief sparkle, but there was none.

How did the others, who had never been in one of these boxes, manage now? Were they so sure their secrets were worth it?

His stomach reminded him that time had passed. His leg hurt all the time, though less now since he'd kept it absolutely still.

He wanted food. Not so much out of hunger, but for something to do. Even much more than that, he needed water. There had been none of either since their arrest, and he could guess it had been several days, from the preoccupation in his head with anything wet.

Water was even driving away thoughts of his future.

He'd dozed again when the door opened. He heard the footsteps and the woosh, and bright light blinded him as they shone it in his eyes.

Covering his face with his hands, he tried to calm the panic. But the Jem'Hadar dragged him ahead, then tied his hands behind him.

One took his arm, hauling him to his feet. Apparently they didn't know he couldn't walk. He almost fell when the guard let go. But he was taken by both arms and hauled along the corridor.

The light wasn't so bright, but still hurt. Mostly, the agony of his leg being dragged blocked out any other thoughts, even of his destination.

They didn't go far. He was towed into a plain room with a desk and several chairs. The one he sat in faced the desk.

There was a full pitcher of water there.

The rest of the room faded. The guards seemed far away. He stared at the water as if it was a vision in some desert mirage, and tried to reach for it. There was a glass sitting next to the pitcher, and he could feel it in his hand, the glass cold and full.

Leaning forward, he reached for it. He could almost touch it. But the guards had other ideas, shoving him against the chair and pushing his arms to his lap. Then straps bound him in place and trapped his arms.

Then they left him. He could not take his eyes off of the water, so close but impossibly far away. Everything else faded and blurred, but the pitcher was crystal clear. The cup shined and glowed. He had held the craving at bay when there was none to have, but now that was impossible and his entire being was focused on the desperate need to reach it.

His mouth was sticky and dry. He tried to lick his parched lips, but his tongue was pithy with mucus. If the chair wasn't bolted to the floor he would have tried to knock it over, even risking the guards punishment, even for just a sip. He stared at the water, transfixed, pulling as hard as he could in a futile effort to reach it.

He was still staring when someone came in the room from behind him and sat at the desk. Glebaroun picked up the pitcher and poured half a glass of water, holding it up for his prisoner to see, and smiling pleasantly.

"I'm sorry I was delayed, Doctor. I imagine you're a bit thirsty."

Bashir tried to answer, trying to deny they were winning, but the words would not come.

"Would you like this?" The Vorta held up the glass. One of the Jem'Hadar took it and released a strap, allowing him partial use of one arm. Julian balanced the glass in his hand as if it was the finest of wine. "Now remember to sip."

He still hesitated. But thirst overcame caution and hatred and everything else as he lifted it carefully. He could just reach it, and cradled it gently so as not to spill any. Supporting the glass with bent fingers, he drank. After the first few tentative sips, trying not to look desperate, he swallowed a large gulp.

There was so little left. He stared at the nearly empty glass, wishing it full again. He could not remember anything ever having tasted so good. Another sip and he swallowed the rest, afraid they'd take it before he was done.

The Jem'Hadar took the glass, placing it on the table next to the pitcher.

"How do you feel?" ask Glebaroun, rather kindly. "Perhaps we can talk now." Bashir was still looking at the water. "Would you like another glass?"

His voice sounded scratchy. Each word was spoken carefully and separately. "Yes, please."

o0o

Lonnie cleared a space at her desk, staring at the bowl Jabara had brought her. She'd let her head nurse take care of the delivery of food from Residential that morning, too busy to spare the time. But all day she'd thought of the dinner they'd have. Most of the patients from Residential were too sick to eat much more than broth, and those that could eat solid food couldn't take much. The staff's allotment of the day before hadn't stretched all that well. The broth had much more flavor, but it wasn't filling. With the staff so busy and getting so little sleep they *had* to have more to eat.

The whole box of cakes had gone into the soup this morning. Everyone received three meals each day. Only one had the majority of the cakes, and they could choose.

She'd picked dinner. The cakes would be soft and flaky. They'd have broken into little bits. The broth had a strong flavor. She didn't even care if it tasted all the same.

It was food. She'd had little more than crumbs for days and wanted to feel a little closer to full.

But she took the first bite and her stomach hurt. She ignored it. She'd never been this hungry before, and was impatient that it took so much work to chew it before she could have another spoonful.

Jabara had settled across the desk, very gently sipping her bowl. "Not so fast. You won't be able to keep it down if you keep that up."

Lonnie stopped, sitting down her spoon. "My stomach hurts."

"You've never gone without before," said Jabara. It wasn't a question.

"No." Lonnie looked at the bowl, a queasy rumbling inside her. "I was so hungry. Now . . . . "

"Sit it aside. Take a few bites when you feel better, then wait."

Lonnie pushed it gently to the side. She still felt sick but willed it to stay down. "I guess you'd know."

"You'll manage," said her nurse, looking away.

o0o

Glebaroun poured a full glass this time and the Jem'Hadar released his other hand so he might hold the glass with both. He took the water carefully, knowing the Vorta was winning but not caring at the moment.

He was drinking the water slowly, trying to make it last, when the platter was brought in. The guard took the glass when he finished, and it was not refilled.

But the platter was uncovered. They had to have scanned his memories. How else would they have known about *this* dish and all it meant to him?

"I believe it has been a long time since you had this dish. You never ordered it on the station. You wanted to keep the taste quite special. But I believe this will meet your expectations."

He stared at it. He knew that the Vorta was watching, probably expecting it to work as well as the water.

But this was a very important meal. He'd kept the taste and sounds of this last meal before he'd left for his new life on Deep Space 9 as a special memory. The Vorta wasn't going to destroy that.

But the game was more complicated than that. "This is for you, but unlike the water you must share a few things to enjoy it."

He smiled again, and Bashir tried to not look at the food. The smell was so enticing he found his glance drifting back towards it. Despite the memories, he was hungry enough that a pile of the chewy ration cakes would have been as desirable, but this meal brought to mind other times now lost and made it all the more terrible to see. It belonged to a time where there was no such thing as the finality of being across the line.

"I will not betray anyone," he said, his voice raspy but strong. He knew they didn't have to ask about that. They already knew.

"Come, Doctor. You know you want some of this. Here, have a bite." Glebaroun took a single bite from the pasta and stepped from behind his desk. Waving the spoon in front of Bashir's mouth, Julian tried to close his lips and refuse. But the Vorta found his mouth open and fed him.

Julian closed his eyes while he tasted the delicate flavors. Somehow, they had recreated it perfectly. If he shut out the room and his tormentor perhaps the memory could survive without too much damage.

But the taste brought back other memories, of times and places long before he'd ever heard of the Dominion or Vorta, long before he'd ever been challenged by the bitterness of his Bajoran patients. He remembered a time lost so completely that he had banished it from his mind. And They had taken it away when they had copied him and sent back someone quite different.

"I will not tell you anything." He didn't look at Glebaroun or the food, but a spot on the floor he had been studying before. The food was too much a reminder of all that had been stolen, and who had taken it. He meant every word he said. The Vorta wanted him to tell something. He understood it didn't matter what. All that mattered was that he was willing.

"Think about it. If you change your mind just say so."

The guards removed the straps holding his shoulders against the chair. They slumped down in relief.

Glebaroun moved the water over and slid the platter next to it. He and the Jem'Hadar left the room.

Even with his eyes closed, he could smell the food. It should have evoked a pleasant memory, of old friends and laughter, but now it had taken on a deep sadness. In the last year, he had learned to push away old memories. He couldn't cope with them. Few people could. They were grieving for what had been lost, and shielded the precious moments so they might not lose their meaning. He hated Glebaroun and all he represented for tainting that day.

But he could ignore the hunger and the temptation. Glebaroun wasn't greedy. Julian knew he would settle for just one small answer, and the food would be his. He hadn't realized how hungry he was, but sitting in the room, alone except for food and drink, he could not stop staring at the table and its temptations.

The walls softened and blurred. He rested his hands on his lap, pressing his back against the chair. The bonds were too tight around his waist, but the chair was rounded. His shoulders drooped forward, especially with the upper straps removed that had pulled back his upper body.

It hurt, not nearly as much as his leg, but enough. He wanted the food. Now that the memory was already ruined, what harm would it do?

But what would he say? The two who hid the medical devices had been among those in the cell. They already knew. It wouldn't hurt to tell. Maybe he could say that.

The room was monitored. He was sure of that. All he had to do was tell the empty room and then the food would be his. Even better, so would the water.

He nearly spoke. He could still taste a bit of the spices and remembered the perfect texture that they duplicated. But later, he knew, they would want more things. He knew they all ready knew all that he could betray, but still . . . . How could he? They'd killed the nurse and the ag man and how many others by now, just to serve as examples. They had forever tainted a cherished memory.

If they'd waited longer before bringing him here he knew he might have anyway. He understood how the desperation for water or food could change people. But he wasn't there yet. The Vorta had miscalculated. He could keep it up, deny him water for more days and perhaps would get what he wanted. But not with this dish. They didn't understand. The taste had opened up a closed door and he could remember that day so clearly. Glebaroun and his kind had ended that life, and sitting in the deceptively painful chair, he found himself grieving for its loss.

o0o

Lonnie picked up the paper she'd been working on. Two of the surgery patients had died. There were complications she couldn't help. They'd been moved to the dead room and an off-duty orderly sat with them until they'd passed.

Their families were in Residential, but she couldn't send for them. They had been aware enough to dictate a few last words to pass on. But she had their death certificates and all the other paperwork to do now.

Thinking of it distracted her stomach a little and she took another small bite. It went down easier and the churning was a little less.

There were more papers to do. That hadn't changed, at least, though now she had all of them to complete. She had plenty of time to get down her dinner.

Jabara was helping. She checked over the documents to make sure they were complete and did Lonnie's old job of filling in the basics before she got them.

Outside her office, there was a cart set up for water and supplies. There was always activity. It was never quiet anymore.

"When you get done, you should get some sleep," suggested her nurse.

"I'll try, if there aren't any emergencies." But she was already past sleep. She hadn't reached exhaustion again yet. But the food was making her sleepy. She rubbed her eyes, the forms blurring.

"I'll save it for you if you can't eat it all."

Lonnie pushed the forms aside. "No, I want to eat. I don't care about a stomach ache. I can't concentrate on these," she added.

"I'll make sure there's a cot," said Jabara, still sipping. I'll get the forms ready for you to finish while you sleep."

She left and Lonnie ate the rest. Her stomach wasn't upset, but had gone from too empty to too full. How could that happen, she wondered vaguely, yawning, with so little?.

Jabara returned, noting the empty bowl. Lonnie was half-asleep at her desk.

"Come, now," she said. "I've got the cot reserved."

She gave in, remembering something Bashir had once said. Jabara took care of people. She decided to let her take care of Lonnie, too.

Safely delivered to her cot, she wrapped the blanket around her, thinking of him. Was he dead, or had they shipped him back to that prison by now?

It didn't matter. His patients were dying without him. She couldn't think beyond the walls of her own prison now.

Maybe tomorrow she'd be able to eat without it hurting so bad. There was always something good to wish for. Falling asleep, she dreamt of the day James had turned sixteen and they'd celebrated with a feast.

She stuffed herself in her dream. Her stomach didn't hurt. The sun was out, and the rest, now dead or gone were there.

It was a pity you had to wake up from dreams into reality, she thought briefly before she fell into the blackness of exhaustion.

o0o

Hours must have passed since they left him strapped alone to the chair. He stared at the platter. The sauce had started to separate and the pasta had started to darken and dry. He caught himself in occasional moments of sleep, the pain waking him. The straps around his waist and chest were cutting into his skin and moving made them hurt more. The circulation in his arms was so limited his hands were going numb.

How long would they leave him? He still stared at the water, his mind pushing away everything else as thirst dominated all the other miseries.

The platter, dried and old, still tempted his empty stomach.

All he had to do was speak, but wondered if his sticky tongue could manage.

If he tried, they'd give him some water. Even if he said the wrong things and was punished he didn't care

He'd dozed, pushing away the pain and need for a little while.

Then the sudden need to breath woke him. He was leaning forward and the strap was making it hard to take a deep breath.

He looked at the food. It was dry around the edges. The sauce was getting crusty and the pasta was half dried. But it hadn't lost its scent, only faded a little. Given the opportunity to reach it, he still would have eaten it.

The straps were pressing hard, cutting deep bruises into his skin and the pain was inescapable even pressing as hard as he could against the back of the chair.

His leg, dangling from the seat, had gotten cold and throbbed constantly. The numbness was crawling up his arms. The pain obscured some of the hunger now.

In his ordeal after the crash, he'd escaped into dreams. But this time the still lingering scent of the sauce flavored them.

o0o

Felix hoisted his glass high, and roared above the laughter, "I propose a toast to our good friend the doctor, and his sweet, puppylike devotion," he finished, mockingly. There was a chorus of "ayes" from the others and more laughter. They were all mildly drunk, from the local wine and the occasion. It wasn't often your best old friend graduated from Starfleet Medical with nearly top honors.

He laughed at the joke, feeling a glow from the wine and proposed a toast of his own. Lifting his glass and catching the others attention, he said, "Here is to old friends," he paused, looking at the glass, "and good wine."

They all shared the toast. The bottle was passed around again for refills, and another toast was being proposed to the pursuit of adventure.

He had tears in his eyes. He had known Felix for a long time, long before Starfleet. He had been deeply touched by his friend's surprise dinner, and especially the trouble he'd taken to find so many long lost friends. He lifted his glass to the toast and sipped, feeling a little less boisterous than the rest.

In the next few days he'd be leaving for his new post on Deep Space Nine, and it occurred to him that despite his desire for adventure, recently saluted, that he would miss this.

The bottle was nearly empty, and the waiter appeared with another. Another cart was rolled into the room with plates, and the waiter and busboys began setting them in place, clearing glasses and the remains of the salads out of the way.

Felix had had more to drink than the others and said rather loudly, "I think I smell the food."

Almost immediately, a larger cart appeared with a steaming covered platter. Everyone was anticipating the dinner.

It was the specialty dish that made the small hideaway so busy. It was served on a large platter, and the delicious odors filled the small private dining room. Each of them had scooped a portion for themselves, and conversation had ceased for a few minutes while they enjoyed the tastes and smells. The others were eating slowly, savoring the taste.

He tried to enjoy each bite, but he was overcome with a frantic need to hurry, and he worried they would take it away before he was done. He watched the waiter as he filled the glasses, holding on to his plate and glass. Instead of the wine the others were drinking, he had plain water. But he swallowed the entire glass in several swallows. He finished his first plate full and began serving himself the next, spilling it on the table in his haste.

They were all staring. The waiter stood directly behind the table, standing stiffly, glaring at him. One by one the other stopped eating and rose, standing together in an arc around the waiter. They were all staring at him, their eyes searching deep into his being.

But Felix still sat next to him, calmly smiling. He finished his plate of pasta and sat down the spoon.

The others faces were hard, wearing bitter looks. He dropped his own spoon and looked away, unable to stand the reproach he saw in their eyes.

Looking at the messy table with its reminder of temptation, he shut his eyes to block it out.

"Thank you for all the cooperation, Doctor. I hope you've enjoyed your meal. It was really quite excellent fare."

It was the Vorta's voice, but the face was Felix's. He turned toward Felix in time to see the face mutate into the Vorta's.

He heard Willman's voice but could not look him in the eyes. "What did you betray us for, a good meal? Traitor."

Looking towards the assembled group, he watched as they blurred and became other friends. Lonnie stood next to Willman, her eyes hard and bitter. She said nothing but stared.

Sisko stepped forward and pointed at him. "You know better than that, Doctor. I trusted you. Everyone trusted you." His face wore a look of utter disdain.

Miles looked at him with and expression of horror. "I really thought we knew you. I thought you were a friend."

"I didn't betray you. I didn't say anything," he pleaded with them.

All of them but Sisko stepped back and turned their backs to him.

Sisko pointed at him again, his expression stern and disappointed. "But you wanted to." He turned his back on the table and the doctor. "Enjoy your meal."

"As the captain said, please have your fill," Glebaroun added, cordially, rising and leaving him alone in the room.

The others vanished. Only the food remained. He tried to push it away but could not. He reached for a bite but found it had become bitter and sickening to eat. He spat it out.

Then the sobs came, deep grief for all that was lost.

Even if the Vorta offered it to him without a word, he knew he couldn't stomach it anymore. All that was left was the bitter ruin of a dream.

He pushed his back against the chair, pressing his shoulders as hard as he could. The pain banished the image of the party and the grief and the guilt and he endured.

Hours later, Glebaroun returned, and the platter with its ruined food was removed and dumped into a replicator bin along with the water.

Julian stared grimly at the floor, refusing to acknowledge Glebaroun or any of the guards. "You know, Doctor, I would think you had learned that it's not good to waste food by now. I suppose we'll have to work on that some more. How unfortunate, especially for you." The Vorta left the room.

The guards unstrapped him. He was lifted up and each held a shoulder. He offered no resistance. Reaching his cell, his hands were untied and he was dumped on the floor. A half-wafer of the chewy rations was dropped next to him, and a small cup of water sat next to that. He didn't move. The door was shut and darkness returned.

He lay in the darkness, only moving enough to stop his leg from hurting, and tried to sleep.

He couldn't use his hands. But eventually the intense aches of new circulation returned, and he could manage to pull the ration cube to him, and he cupped the water close, sipping it like the fine treasure it was.

He tried to forget the scent of the sauce filling the room, but it still filled his mind.

The dinner replayed in his dream, as vivid as the moment their escape had failed and Garak died before his eyes. There were different accusers, but they said the same.

He told himself he had only been tempted. The dream was borne of hunger and thirst and pain. He hadn't spoken, though it would have been so easy.

But he *had* wanted to. If not for the dream he would have betrayed the two they already had taken, blood on his hands.

The dream repeated, the food growing more meager and his need to take it all too absolute. And when he looked at his hands they were always smeared in blood.

The Vorta had made his memory into nightmare. He would not allow himself to forget.

o0o

Cheryl Jackson nibbled on the chunk of cake. She watched as Jeffrey dug fingers into his food to fish out the pieces. Calla needed help, but they spooned as much of the broth into her as they could. Jeffrey had his cup, and when he'd eaten all the chunks, his father poured the broth into the cup for him to drink.

There was no problem getting them to eat. Hungry children were not fussy over food. It was only the second day of regular meals, but they had learned.

The deck was covered in people. They'd brought matts and blankets to sit on, and it was almost like a picnic. If you didn't look too far, where the Jem'Hadar stood behind their line, it was almost a pleasant day.

It wasn't so bad now. The food was plain and insufficient, but they were already used to that. The children already knew that complaining wouldn't help. The older ones stared across the line where dark stains still shone on the grey rock, but never looked at the Jem'Hadar.

They'd kept the bargain. They behaved inside, and the guards didn't cross over the line. But just the same everyone always knew they were there.

You chose to see what you wanted. Children still played, but corralled inside a ring of adults. Everyone was terrified of a child running too far and dying. They sat and talked, or traded books, or just sat in silence.

There was little to do. Dax had had no problem getting volunteers. There just wasn't enough to use them all. Emery took as many as he could, but they didn't work for very long. That left endless hours to sit in the sun, or stare at too familiar walls, and pretend that outside a line of blue death did not live.

But life revolved around meals. Breakfast was early, mostly broth with a hint of flakes left from the night before. The pot was never emptied, only added to. A crew of too many helped, but the wash water was warmed and the bowls washed. Then they were dried and replaced on their shelf.

Then more hours were left before lunch. It was still cold and most who didn't get to help went home until then.

Lunch came with the bright sun, and children arrived with toys. A ring of adults guarded them. When the food was ready, they broke into families again and the children forgot about everything but the bowl they waited for.

Nobody got seconds anymore. Pregnant women-and by now there were plenty-got one refill as did nursing mothers. But the rest had to be satisfied with what they got.

It showed already. It had been a few days since they'd been released from curfew and fed, but they'd been without anything for nearly a week. The scant meals didn't make up for it.

Even the children were tired. And when they played, they were always watching.

Cheryl sat in the ring after meals. Jeffrey brought his blocks and wouldn't let anyone else touch them as he smashed. Calla loved to play with the dirt, and dug out the rocks she found.

Cheryl took solace in the joy she saw in her daughter. She managed not to see the angry child her son had become. But now and then she had to take him home early when he hit someone who touched his blocks.

Nobody talked about before. The rain would come, and they kept to themselves the hope it would wash away the blood. But nothing would remove the memory.

Carl spent meals with his family, but afterwards disappeared into Dax's office. There were still forms. But their neighbors no longer stared.

Life was dismal and boring. But it could be worse. Each day resembled the last, but at the end of the day, they knew nothing terrible had happened.

A few people had been taken to the hospital and returned with tales of crowding and smells and noise. Nobody wanted to be sick enough to have to stay more than a little while.

It was a reminder of their luck. Dax ate with them, and toured the deck every day, watching the children with a deep sadness. Sometimes she left her work to watch the children, and had brought a book of children's stories to read.

They read to them in the afternoon now. They'd played long enough that they were tired. Cheryl had taken her turn at story time. The children didn't seem to mind if they read the same stories every day. Once in a while an older woman named Dorothy came and told better stories. She had been ill, and only came when the weather was good. Even the adults would gather to listen when the storyteller spoke.

But the day always ended the same. Dinner came and went. The cleanup crew washed and dried, and the food crew covered the pot. Carl had things to do and left her with the children until curfew.

He went home with her. They'd file inside and close the door. The water bottles were already filled. The matts and blankets they used outside were shaken and brought in. Jeffrey tossed blocks at the wall for a while before he fell asleep. Calla was already out, but if she woke her favorite rocks were stored by her bed.

Cheryl didn't let herself think about how little she had. There was no brightness in her life. She played with dull colored rocks and wore bland clothes. There were no supplies to spare for her to color, and aside from a few homemade dolls, little else to play with.

She feared for her daughter. Worse, she knew the damage this place had already done to her son.

But night came. The children slept. Carl held her and she pretended that somehow, maybe, tomorrow might be better.

o0o

Molly was getting her worn, already grimy clothes covered with dirt as she and the other children played a rough and tumble game of tag. After the long time in hiding, Keiko had worried that her daughter would never smile again. But there were a number of children here, and Molly had slowly been drawn into their games.

She doubted her daughter would have a normal childhood in this place, but at least she would have a taste of it. Keiko smiled at the noise and energy, so refreshing in the dullness. She told herself, again, that it really wasn't that bad, repeating the litany everyone here lived with. She had even managed to forget that it was a convenient line. It was easier that way.

Next to Keiko was Jackie, Marka's year old daughter, asleep on a mat along with Yoshi. Keeping Keiko company was Teana, Marka's three year old daughter. The oldest, Pashe, a little older than Molly, was among the tag players. Keiko watched them as they played, telling herself that her children might keep their childhoods.

But then she saw the first hesitation as the noise approached. Abruptly, the game ceased. They scattered, and Keiko moved herself and the three children past the alcove where it would be difficult to see them.

There were four Jem'Hadar. They must have had somewhere to go because they moved through quickly. But no one moved until the sound of their footsteps faded completely.

Gradually, the children climbed out of their hiding places, the older ones looking around cautiously for signs of the enemy. When they were satisfied one of them whistled. One by one, the smaller children came out of hiding, slowly and with great caution, still listening.

Molly was among the guardians. Keiko watched her, dirty and ragged and wary. She tried to remember the little girl and her stuffed animal, hounding her father for attention when he'd just gotten off work.

But she couldn't find that child anymore. Miles, if he was alive, might be among those captured and deported to places the natives had failed to survive. She couldn't imagine her husband lost in such a place at all. The Chief, ever busy and proud of his work, was the man she held in her memory.

These creatures played like children. But childhood, as Keiko understood it to be, had already gone.

Jackie was stirring, wanting to be held. She scooped the small child off the mat and watched as she relaxed in her arms. She and Marka alternated caring for the children while the other worked. In the months since they had become roommates, it was almost like the children were siblings.

Molly and the others were safe again. The game became as noisy as before. Keiko held the small girl in her arms, wondering if she and the others so young that they'd not remember what came before would ever really know what childhood was.

o0o

Randy was awake. It was probably the middle of the night. The room was cold and he had the blanket wrapped tightly around him. The wind was blowing. He listened as it slammed pebbles against the wall.

He liked it when the wind blew. It was so hard during the quiet times. Wind made noises and he could lay and guess what had changed. Sometimes he closed his eyes and watched it in his head.

He was too tired for much else. One cake a day and a couple of cups of water wasn't much. All they had to do was lie still and think, but that made it worse. There were too many things that hurt and too much to remember.

Tom still wandered. He slept on and off and sat up in-between. But he didn't stare out the window so much anymore.

James hardly moved. He'd curl against the wall after he ate, and not roll over or make a sound for hours. Randy wondered if he was trying to find the park. But he stood when the guards came, and followed the others out to be scanned. He took his food and silently sat on his bed while he ate.

Randy had tried to see his eyes, but it was too dark. He wanted to know if James saw anything but grey.

He'd started keeping count of the days. But he wasn't sure how many there'd been before that.

But at dusk they were ready. The door would open and they'd get that one, brief moment of light.

The sun had been setting. The colors were all faded but he remembered them well enough to make them brighter.

He hoped James could do that. But he couldn't stand to think of papers now. Each was a reminder of the other life. He couldn't remember it or he couldn't take the dullness and emptiness of this one.

But the dusk and their brief moment outside kept him alive. Each day he lived for that moment, the brief glance of sky and dusk and color. The long, empty time after just existed.

Tomorrow they'd come again. He didn't know if the food or the sky mattered more, but wished the day would hurry past so the next moment could come.

Tom was stirring. James had shifted his position on the cot. The wind was so loud, the pebbles sounding so much like rain.

He closed his eyes and saw it spit against the wall, shattering off small sparkly chunks. They flew in the wind, blowing from the rocks that had bound them. If he could be anything in the world right then, he would choose to fly free in the wind and fall, safe, to ground.

The wind blew. Randy let it fill his mind until he swirled and danced and for a time he was free.

o0o

It was so starkly defined on paper. Jadzia stared at the sheet she had been provided to post for everyone to read. Evidently, They wanted her people to understand what they had to lose.

The Dominion assigned degrees of guilt. The Ag department had taken the greatest losses. There had been the replicator and all the things in the cave. It was foolish to think that they hadn't known. Those who knew about the project, that done in secret or before, faced the choice of cooperating or else.

Curzon could guess the else.

Sisko's upper level aides knew all about the contraband that had been destroyed rather than be reported.

All the Ag people had been questioned. Sixteen had been arrested and removed.

Sisko's aides and the others, and the Department heads except her, were being held in detention in the office area. Later, when the survivors went to their offices, they'd always remember.

Contraband had been found inside the hospital, three arrested and removed with it, including Bashir. Two others had been taken without any explanation. They were under house arrest on one third rations. She'd heard things about the hospital. It had been bad enough when she'd been there. She didn't mind dying. But she didn't want to die there.

In her section, they were bored and hungry. But they were not safe. She knew that each day life was sharpened by a fear they couldn't name. The Jem'Hadar were always there, and the line of blue was the difference between life and death.

It didn't mention those killed as examples or having died in the crowded hospital. It didn't suggest the hungry children or the ones who had seen someone fall from a rifle shot and would never be the same. She wished it had been more complete. But in time they would know, when all the stark numbers were assembled and compiled and they really understood how much had been lost.

o0o

Noting the date, near James birthday, that day a year before no longer quite real, Lonnie added the four papers to her box, patients who had infected and with nothing to treat them, had died quickly. She could use Willman's treatment for some wounds, but not all. Or maybe these were just "susceptible" as Bashir had noted last winter.

She was tired. She just wanted to sleep and wake with none of the forms that filled in their tally that day. The red section had not disappeared, though it was smaller now. But every day more moved there. She signed the last form, taking a quick tally for herself. Sixteen since they'd come that horrible day Jenny had died, mostly those sick already but now with nothing to treat them. At least that many were destined to join them in the next week, barely hanging on.

She stored the box. The records would be picked up soon. It was getting close to the first month of their nightmare. She yawned, looking at the cot. Jabara was watching the store tonight. If anything else went wrong she'd be gotten but maybe tonight she could sleep.

She laid down on the cot, laying the blanket across her, and watched as the shadows fell in the dimmed light. She didn't believe in ghosts, but sometimes, when the light was right she wondered. But the day was ending. She shut out the ghosts and the fears and everything else, and dreamed of home and dreams and tables filled with foods she had almost forgotten. But she heard her father, when he didn't know she was listening. A nurse, he'd said, just a nurse? If she had to quit art school at least she should be a doctor.

She wondered if he'd be satisfied now, knowing that he was right. Maybe she'd know more, or been able to learn past what Willman had taught her expecting Julian to live. But she couldn't go back and her stomach was rumbling. Residential hadn't been able to transfer the rations this time. So she let her world be all the feasts she'd ever known and for a little while she wasn't hungry or tired and could remembered what it was like to dream.

o0o

The persistent cold of that corner of Bajor's winter had shifted to very cold windy nights and icy cold rain over snow. But the warehouses in their compound had filled up with the supplies for the springs planting, still stored in its shipping containers. Before it could be divided for the spring work they had to be opened and re-packed. The slashies housed within, and the military version permitted to cross compounds had been busy for over a week. But Megan and Dan had not been among those who got to work inside where it was dry.

Megan hung up her wet coat and pulled off soggy boots, storing them in the corner they had assigned for wet things. The outside assignments were done earlier. Underneath, today, her winter work clothes were filthy, but dry. She hurried to her blankets and could not find her slippers. Giving the few in the room a hard look, Dan pulled them out of his side, nicely warmed. She pulled them on and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, pulling one over her lap.

Only then did she notice the bruise and cut on his cheek. He was sitting quite still, staring across the uncrossable divide in the matts straight at Greson. Greson had taken a particular dislike to Dan. The men who had come with him had chosen to keep their stories private, given the attitude of their neighbors. Dan had dribbled out just enough they knew what they were missing. Greson didn't like her attitude because he didn't intimidate her, but Dan had become a special project. He'd come in soaked through most days since the warehouse work and glared at Greson as he took off the wet things and dumped them over the edge of the piled mats to dry.

They were all hoping that the new shipment arrived soon and they'd be moved so he had someone new to torment. Within their corner they had adjusted. The men, after the shock of landing in such a bitter, low place, had settled quite quickly. Dan had first reached out in that cell and was their personal leader, but they no longer slept as a group. Darla sometimes shared blankets with one of them, and the two were sound asleep, curled under a pile of blankets. She didn't want to wake her but the cut needed attention.

Dan's eyes never left Greson, both cold as ice and brimming with resentment at the same time. She tried to imagine how it would feel to be dropped into this brutal world with no warning at all but couldn't fathom it. They had known for months that something bad was rushing their way at CA, and saw the reality of life on Devon outside their shielded world. Maybe knowing what awaited you made it a little easier to adjust. The soldiers had had different demons but it didn't help.

She hadn't seen *him* since the doctor, over two weeks ago. Others had been sent there to work in the warehouse, but not him. If he'd been caught, she knew, she never would. But she and Dan had gotten used to each other now, and she saw the time with *him* had just been the first few acts of a play never finished. He had been an adventure, but Dan was her companion.

"When Darla wakes up we've got to see to the cut," she said.

"It'll be fine," he said, entirely preoccupied.

"No it won't." She wouldn't ask him who and when. He'd tell her if he was ready.

"Wasn't the blackies," he mumbled softly, using the name the men did for the CA guards outside. "They are amused but they keep their distance." They knew the slashies in G3 were not CA. But that didn't buy them anything but letting the sarki do the punishing instead.

His constant gaze on Greson explained things well enough. The walkway in had been a sea of half-frozen mud that morning and it was cleared now. Only Greson and his little cadre of lieutenants would be ordering that. "Made me shovel it out twice and then said it was taking too long, so he made sure I remembered."

She had been assigned the recording of the shipments as they were pulled out of the warehouses for dividing. She recorded the contents after a survey of the crate, sometimes with multiple items crammed inside together, and it took time. Then, with the list fastened to the top, it was returned inside to wait its turn. But outside, all she had was an awning over her where she stood. The crates remained dry, and the paperwork, but then they had much more value than the workers.

In theory, her work in supply on Devon, and hands on in the warehouse had found some worth, but just the same everyone knew she was really just being punished. But she had finished before the rest and still not completely soaked, got to go home.

Home was strictly defined, the width of the blankets and piled, infested mats she shared with Dan and the invisible line which separated their corner. Past that lie the enemy, home surrounded by a siege and she and Dan the gatekeepers.

Everyone knew, soon, the next batch of victims would arrive and they'd be moved to their own section. There were rumors it was overcrowded and the guards were worse, but none of those trapped in the corner cared anymore. But with the pure hatred in Dan's eyes and the cut, she wondered if as a favor for something Greson did for them, they might leave them behind.

There were shadowy memories of the moments past the door, and waking, broken and bleeding on the floor, but she remembered no real details. But they reminded her that when Greson stared at her, he was only a pretender. And when Dan held her, there was still a wall that could not be crossed, or she might remember. She hated Greson as much as those that had abused her for his intrusion.

Darla had made some headway offering first aide. One of the sarki women was a nurse and the two had gotten to know each other, but aside from that it was as if their little space was fenced as tightly as the compound. After numbness and shock wore off, and after the double work load they were given wore them down enough to just wanting to get through the day, they had adjusted rather quickly to the brutal world where they found themselves at the bottom.

Darla's group, still hoping for some leeway, had gone invisible and Robbie had gone into hiding inside herself. Megan had become their watcher as Dan was the men's. Communications, as short and gruff as they were, were still addressed mostly at them. She didn't like it but it was how it was. Now, she too lived in Darla's half world.

Shivering, she was tired and cold and needed to rest before the evening. After the line for dinner was done and they were allowed their turn, there would be work to do. At least, she thought, when the roughly chopped wood the military slashies were processing was chipped, the sarki would be spending long days digging it into muddy, cold soil all day. At least they would be gone by then. Slashies couldn't be made to work there. The rules of the caste system in which they lived were as stringent and uncrossable as they could be made. The Dominion masters had finally figured out a way to control their slaves without having to shoot so many of them.

Or was it the Dominion? Nothing resembling a Vorta or Jem'Hadar, or even the aliens from Devon had been seen at all. Nothing but blacksuits and greysuits, all alpha quadrant calties, and too many of them quite human. And whoever ran other places, CA was obviously in charge of their little piece of hell.

She slipped into the blankets, pulling him down towards her. She needed his warmth but then she didn't much like the stare either. Greson could retaliate too easily. But in their nest of blankets, slowly warming, he started to whisper and she smiled in the dark of their sanctuary.

The blackies responsible for this group–she found herself calling them that too now–hung around more than needed, and Greson had some connection with them. Dan didn't know or care, but while he'd been cleaning out a spill near a shed, working out of sight, the two blackies and Greson had gone into the shed that day. There had been whispers and though he couldn't hear them well enough to understand, he guessed it was the Trade. Others guessed it was something more basic, the dark-haired one clearly interested in Greson, but Dan didn't read it that way.

Greson had been granted tacit authority over them anywhere near the barns. The guards did the normal work assignments but didn't interfere otherwise. If there were other than bribes going on, the sarki population would have suspected. That sort of favor was one they would not have tolerated. But Dan slid something into her hand, something hard and metal and unlikely to be found in their now primitive level of existence. She could hear the satisfaction in his whisper.

It could end badly, she knew. She had played such games. She still wasn't sure if she had lost or not. She could be dead in a pit like Sir. But you had to try. That evening a new pile of matts would arrive. The old ones, destined to be cleaned of the infestation of fuzzybugs, were to be left so that they would so graciously have more of their own matts to pile. It would mean the bugs would just move back to set up home in the new ones, and then they'd decontaminate the room. But the slashies would have to live with the concentration of them until then, if not moved before. They didn't work in the fields and their little area had been relatively lightly infested so far.

But everything would have to be moved out first. Greson would make them do it. After the sarki got their personal property, they would be made to move out the old and clean up the area. Then they'd re-lay the new ones. And when the new slashies arrived, Greson would make sure both of them went with the rest to the next compound.

Dan had found the device in the mud, dropped accidentally. He would have ample opportunity to leave it where Greson could find it in his matts. There was only one possible way for it to get there.

Dan wouldn't turn him in. It would endanger everyone. But Greson would know he knew. One word to a guard, any guard, or a slip of paper left to find was all that was needed. The Group might still go on half rations, unthinkable, but always a risk if it was Trade. But Greson would either die or be slashed himself. The blackies he dealt with would be executed and their families slashed. He didn't see the flash of fear in her eyes, remembering walking to a door knowing it was all over. Before the next day was out, Greson would dispose of it somewhere nobody would see it, for if found, CA there, too, would have its own bloodbath.

Greson would make sure that didn't happen. Very soon, if they stayed when the new shipment was parceled out, they would be treated a little better. Perhaps even before they were moved. It would never change that the slashies were outcasts, but small things meant more than she had ever thought they could when that was all you had.

You took your chances. They might pay off. They might fail. You did what you had to, no risk, no gain.

The metal object slipped out of his hand as Dan fell asleep, pressed against her with his arms wrapped around her. She liked the feeling, the closeness. His plan to tame Greson drew them closer. But as he reached around her and pulled her against him, a tension made her shudder and he soothed her, gently rubbing her back.

The device was a recorder, once commonly used to document meetings or take notes during warehouse inspections. Now it equaled nothing less than death.

He whispered softly, as she hid the metal device where it would not be activated accidentally, that even if he didn't wear the uniform, Greson was a blackie, and still owed them. And when they were gone, he would pay for it.

The tension ebbed a little, and she thought of how Dan spoke of his father, a gently man who hated war and how he would no longer even know his son.

end, Legacy, Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 5


	7. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 6

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 6

Calla Jackson had never known anything but the harsh, rocky world of Cyrus 3. She had been born the day of their first arrival, delivered by Dr. Willman. She was a healthy baby, though, and had mastered walking early. She wasn't quite one and she ran everywhere. Her chief delight was the grey rocks that smashed into bits so easily. Like most children her age, she seldom paid attention to her parents when she decided to explore.

That day Jeffrey had been in a bad mood and Cheryl had had to bring the children back home early. Calla was sitting in front of her house, playing with the pebbles and a few rounded rocks found by the water. Jeffrey was playing with his new game, home made letters made by his father, and didn't notice his sister at all.

Then Calla stood up. She started to run, approaching the open area where the line was. Cheryl took after her, almost catching her when she glanced back at Jeffrey, thinking he was following.

Calla stopped, playing a game with her mother one year olds liked to play. Most of the time it was fun. She giggled and stared out past the line, where the Jem'Hadar and their rifles stood ready to kill.

There was a big rock, sitting a little beyond the line. Calla saw it and sprinted after it.

Cheryl followed but the child was too fast. The little girl had almost reached the blue line when Cheryl froze.

She didn't scream. Later, she wondered if it might have stopped the child from running further.

Their worse nightmares came true when Calla danced across the line. Cheryl dashed forward, but could not stop her.

Calla giggled at Mommy's game. But she reached her rock and grabbed another in her little hand to smash with. Her giggles echoed in her mother's ears as she stopped, just short of the blue line, and froze.

Calla was still alive, sitting on the ground playing with the rock. They were holding back, at least for the moment. But she knew if she tried to go to her daughter they would shoot her. They had guns trained on the child, still playing, oblivious to the commotion she was causing. But they had not fired.

Cheryl also knew that if the child did not go back soon they would kill her.

She tried to call her, tempting the girl with her favorite games if she would come to mommy. But Calla just giggled at Mommy's new game and continued to hit the rocks together.

Word had spread; someone ran up carrying her favorite doll. The little girl saw it, and abandoned the rock. Cheryl kept the sheer panic and horror out of her face while she danced the doll around, keeping her voice cheerful, still calling the child to come. Calla was standing now, and was dancing around, laughing and giggling at funny mommy. But she was not coming.

"Dada," she said as her father walked slowly forward, stopping right on the line.

He called her too, but she liked all the attention she was getting and giggled some more. Mommy had stopped playing with the doll and stood next to Daddy, calling her again. The Jem'Hadar looked towards Cheryl and Carl.

One of the others trained his gun on the little dancing girl, while the ranking guard addressed them. "She comes now. No more time." Carl Jackson looked at the guard, pleading with his eyes. Cheryl tried to call her again, but Calla had found a game to play and was not paying any attention to them.

"Disobedience of this sort cannot be tolerated," said the head guard.

All Cheryl could see was her dancing child and the gun that was going to kill her. Carl was frozen is a state of shock. But then, another voice broke the spell. It was Dax.

"Please. Wait," she said, addressing the head guard. She was perfectly calm. "The child is too young to understand. Someone will have to come and get her."

He looked at Dax, who alone among the crowd was calm. He gestured for the other guard to wait. "You, then. Take the child. But the next time there will be no leniency."

Dax nodded, then carefully crossed the line of blue posts and moved towards the little girl. Now, guns were pointed at her as well. She knelt down in front of the child, holding out her arms. "Come on, honey, your mommy needs you." She scooped up Calla and calmly walked back over the line, the guns dropping as she passed over it.

She continued walking toward the settlement, and a neighbor grabbed Cheryl when she fainted.

o0o

Carl was walking in a daze. They reached the buildings, and he followed Jadzia to their quarters. Several adults guarded Calla as Jadzia sat her down outside. She entered their door and he followed. Cheryl was carried inside and he took her in his arms.

"She'll be fine outside," said Jadzia. "But we must talk about this now, before anyone forgets what almost happened."

He nodded, numb, but wondered, looking at her, why there was almost a look of disappointment in her face.

o0o

Jeffrey had noticed the commotion and put down his letters just in time to see the guns leveled at his sister. With all the adults he'd stayed by his house, frozen in a kind of trance. He already knew what the guns did. He could see his sister all covered in blood. But when she didn't die he picked up his letters and started to arrange them.

He liked his blocks better, but his mother had taken them away when he'd hit someone who touched them. The letters didn't keep much of his interest. And he kept watching as his sister was carried closer.

Then the one with the spots put her down. He ran to catch his sister and held her tight. She tried to squirm loose but he didn't let her go. In his best imitation of the lectures his daddy gave him, he told her never, never to run away again.

She giggled, discovering his numbers, and started stacking them in piles. He just sat and held her, the terror still in his eyes. Gradually it faded, but no matter how much she squirmed, he just held tighter.

And from then on, when she played, her brother promised that he'd never be far away.

o0o

Dax hesitated when she returned home. She'd spoken to Jackson and his wife for almost an hour, watching as they kept glancing at the door. There were plenty of watchers outside to keep the children safe, but she could feel their need to hold them.

She wondered if the reason for her own freedom was to save the girl. A great weariness had come over her since she'd left their home and the children were rushed inside.

She didn't know why the Jem'Hadar had listened. But she was certain that she alone could have done it.

After a moment of indecision, she entered her office. There was always more work to do. But now it was just a pile of paper. Dinner would be ready soon. She forced herself to sit and take the first form from the pile.

It meant nothing. She wrote the proper words, but the connection to that and much else had suddenly broken. Worf was near, waiting for her to sleep so he might come closer to her dreams.

She would leave this place soon. A little child was alive but in exchange, she would give her own life.

She wished that the fates had seen fit to tell her when. There was much to do. Someone else would have to file and process reports. Someone else would need to take the daily walk and touch the rest. Someone else must be calm and in control so the rest would believe there was something beyond this time.

But who? The others of her former rank were held captive. If the reports were true, they'd been confined in solitary. She couldn't imagine how hard it would be to suddenly be freed to face this mound of papers and the faces outside who needed someone to care.

Would her replacement remember how to care? Perhaps they'd simply give Emery or Jackson her place.

Emery was fully in charge of the food. She wouldn't want to burden him with more. And Jackson . . . he was not right for it. In the privacy of their bedroom, sitting with her as a mediator, he'd lashed out at his wife.

She'd almost had to physically stop him from hitting her. He was too afraid of the Jem'Hadar to let out any of that rage. But his wife hadn't been watching well enough, he'd said, coldly at first. Then his tone changed, deep anger filling each word.

He'd accused her of nearly murdering their daughter.

Cheryl had backed away, stunned by the rawness of his grief and rage. She'd finally gotten both reasonably calm, but the fear inside him was worse now.

If he was ever put in charge of anything, he'd be *worse* than the enemy. She wished there was someone to talk with, someone to warn. She would be gone by then. More than once, at first, she'd had to refuse his ideas. The line of Jem'Hadar was bad enough. They didn't need to create more oppression from within.

She'd ask Emery to go by and check on the Jacksons. She didn't really have to explain. He saw it too.

Maybe, later, he'd manage to warn them.

But there was a light tap on the outside door. She abandoned the forms and answered it.

It was Jackson. He'd been crying. Rage had gone into grief and she guessed his wife was still too afraid of him to help.

"Could we talk? Cheryl won't let me in the bedroom. She took the kids in there and shut the door."

She opened her own door and watched as he slowly stumbled into her room, then collapsed on her bed. She took the chair. "You threatened her before. She almost had a baby shot in front of her. You need to give her time."

"I didn't mean it. I'd . . . I'd never hurt her."

"You sounded like you wanted to. And you lunged at her."

She was worried about them. Carl had to face the dangers inside himself. If he didn't he might destroy more than just himself and his family.

"All I could see was Calla lying there dead. I don't know what I would have done if they'd shot her. I don't think I'd have cared if they shot me. I'd have gone after them."

"You don't know. It didn't happen. But you can't turn on your wife. She didn't hurt Calla. She just tried to save her."

He held his head in his hands and sobbed. "I know," he said in a little voice.

"Give her some time. And *remember* who the enemy is. We have to see them and the line, but don't forget, they broke their own rules to save her."

He stopped sobbing. Sitting up straight, he looked at her. She saw devotion in his eyes, but it was holding back a storm. "No," he said calmly, "You saved her. I don't know why they brought you here, but we need you."

She shivered. There was no image and no sounds, but she saw a great looming darkness in his soul. She could hold it back, but wouldn't be there when he needed her.

He stood. She wanted to tell him to take care, but couldn't find the words. "I'd like to go home now," he said. "I think I need to sleep."

Worf was waiting. She could sense him very close. Jackson opened the door and let himself out.

She sat on the bed where he'd been. Before, her fate, looming so close, had been a welcome dream. Now, seeing the darkness in his eyes, she wished to push it back.

Dinner should be ready. She'd eat and then get back to her reports. At the moment, she couldn't stand that room and the trace of death that waited.

Worf was so close. He drew her near, but now she pushed him away. "Not so soon," she told him. "I have to stay."

But he just backed away. She'd keep him that way as long as she could and maybe she could make a little more of a difference.

o0o

Up the hill, things were very different. Lonnie Broadman was addressed as "Sir" by her staff. She had hated Willman's ironclad rules, but in the end, hers were even more absolute. She did what she could for the patients, much more than she once had thought she could do. There were new ones, mostly from minor accidents gone infected, but the hospital had already been filled beyond capacity when they'd come. Slowly and inexorably, the worse off were dying because there wasn't enough to risk on them when it could save someone else.

The staff worked long hours, sharing the small sleeping area allotted to them. Rations for them were officially only one third, but they got more than that. The patients contributed their own half allotments, and while everyone was still hungry, nobody had collapsed.

Patients received what food they could tolerate. But those that stayed were too sick to eat much. Maybe it wasn't fair, but it worked. Any of her staff who committed serious infractions would have to live with only their third. But no one had and she did not expect it to happen. It was different when you had the real enemy outside your door. But she would enforce her rule if it did.

She'd only been in charge for a very short time. But the responsibility and the grimness of life had already taken it's toll. The bodies she'd destroyed that had died of murder had hardened her heart. She ran her hospital with a strict, unbending set of rules that had been written the day after the rations-and ten new patients-had arrived.

She was hard on everyone. The staff was divided into sections. The sleeping area had been filled with cots and cushions and even stacks of blankets, but now the staff worked and slept together in their sections. It eliminated the chaotic sleep they'd been getting before.

Inside the sleeping room, she left to them who slept where, but the staff appeared far more rested.

Even families were formally required to help in some way. Most of them were already, but she had no place in her rules for the useless. The families of staff and companions of those who were patients had been loosely organized as the "non-medical" staff and housed, sleeping in shifts matching the medical staff, in their own room..

They did whatever they were told. The medical staff, by definition, outranked them and could assign work as needed.

Without them, the patients wouldn't get much of a personal touch. The medical staff didn't have time. Kept busy, she knew, they would have less time to worry. Working, they had less time to notice the misery.

She vaguely remembered the hospital as it had once been, a small but reasonably equipped medical center built to serve the few residents of the original population. The beds had not been pushed so close together it was difficult to move between them. There had been empty spaces. Now, even the smallest corners were used for something, and privacy didn't exist.

The water tap had improved, but it was still the only one. Bathing, beyond the patients abbreviated bed baths, and an occasional wipe down with a wet towel for the rest, was forbidden. It took too much time and effort to collect, store and move water for that. Some had tried to keep cleaner than others, but the unwashed smell was already obvious after those brief times when they breathed the outside air..

She hardly noticed it anymore, even then. The only times were the occasions when the door was opened, and there was fresh air. Mostly it was a little gift amid the horror of outside. But inside was theirs, and even when the trip was for supplies, the threat was every present. In a little while, back inside, the only ones who'd care were the patient companions who hadn't gotten used to it yet.

And if she ask a lot of them, she ask more of herself. She'd commandeered a cot and moved herself into her office. That way she could take naps but still go back to the work. Jabara, who was fast becoming indispensable, slept there when Lonnie wasn't using the cot.

Six of their number were gone, including Willman. But none were spoken of. Shari was cared for with the other children of staff, and Kay was assumed to be dead. If she, and the others, did come back it would be a great gift, but it was easier not to have hope and be faced with the doubt and the disappointment when all was done.

Life went on. Patients died and lived and in the crowed rooms they held onto the hope that when it was over they could see the sun again. Too many had died., twelve in the last week. But she understood now. Julian had said a part of him had never left the internment camp. She knew that for those trapped inside none would ever be able to leave it behind.

o0o

Jadzia pealed off the wet clothes, draping them on chairs to dry. Spring had come, or at least the beginning of the rainy season was here.

Her day so far had been most unpleasant. Before curfew ended, there had been a knock on her door and she found a Jem'Hadar standing before her.

"You must come. The Vorta wants to speak to you."

He'd stood in the pouring rain, water running down his scaly skin, while she dressed. Throwing on her winter coat, the morning still very cold, she followed him out past the houses to the deck.

The mud was already spreading. It was still confined to the deck area, but the rock they'd been unable to dislodge blocked most of the flow from the drainage channel and just caused more flooding. The spring runoff hadn't come yet, but when it did instead of murky water the ditch would be full of slippery mud.

They'd already moved food to the lower deck, dispensing it out of the storage building. People ate at the tables placed nearby and turned in their bowls. There hadn't been a line. But they opened for dinner immediately after lunch and allowed breakfast to merge into lunch. That way people could come whenever there was room.

With the rain most of them stayed inside. But they'd stand outside in the downpour with their children in the afternoons. The rain washed some of the dirt away.

The outside water wasn't sufficient for bathing. Stripping off the last of her soaked clothes, she rubbed her wet skin with a towel. She felt a little cleaner. Changing into dry clothes, she took the time to carefully brush out and towel dry her hair before pulling it back into a ponytail.

It wasn't sticky, at least.

She wished this was the last visit across the ditch and through the gate. When they'd arrived, the dawn was just brightening the sky. Everything was still in shadow.

It was eery. Everything looked the same. The square was covered in pale green moss, growing thicker from the rain. The buildings were untouched and there were no guards visible.

But she could see the doors with locks on them. Silently, she followed the Jem'Hadar to the room Glebaroun had chosen to use as his office.

She was a little surprised that he hadn't used Sisko's. It appeared to be closed but not locked. She wondered if the paperwork left that day a lifetime ago was still waiting for Ben's signature.

She was ushered into the office and the Jem'Hadar stayed outside. It was one of the conference rooms they'd used for larger meetings, and all the papers from her and Lonnie were piled on the end of the table.

The Vorta eyed her with curiosity. "I wanted to meet the woman who convinced my guards to spare the child."

Jadzia didn't move, standing in front of him. "She was too young to understand, Sir," she said.

"Yes. I worry it's set a bad prescient. I want you to make certain that your people know that the next time there will be no leniency, no matter how young the offender. They will be shot."

She didn't look at him. But she studied him just the same. She hadn't met a lot of Vorta, but enough to compare. His clothes were brighter than theirs, but hardly the bright colors Weyoun chose to wear. Nor did he look especially pleased at where he was. But she sensed they were important, and thus, so was he.

"I have already made sure the incident won't be repeated," she said.

"Sit. I'd like to talk. I am very pleased at how well you've been keeping order, aside from the child."

She sat. "I do my best. I try to be reasonable."

He eyed her with amusement. "I chose to spare the proper one, then. The head of Operations destroyed the things hidden in the cave, as well, so he did not deserve my clemency."

She'd destroyed all the things left in the box. Apparently, he'd chosen to overlook that.

What had happened to Miles, she wondered. Was he dead? Was he locked away here or had he been questioned and shot? She didn't want to know the answer. It only reminded her that she did not have long to stay.

"I am most grateful, sir," she replied.

He was amused. He pushed a button and the side door opened. One of the Ag people, she thought his name was Thompson, stumbled in.

What had they done to him? He stood and waited, utterly subservient. He looked thin, although the bruises were almost gone. But there was terror in his eyes.

She didn't look at him. Was that the fate of the others they'd taken, to be reduced to slaves?

"Some juice for my guest. And quickly."

He disappeared, bolting like a scared animal. "He was recently disciplined. I do hope he doesn't spill it. Your Agriculture Department heads had been experimenting with a berry that grows on the planet. I find its juice rather interesting.

Thompson returned with two glasses, carefully sitting them in front of her and the Vorta. He stood back, waiting to be dismissed.

"Good, nothing spilled," said Glebaroun. "You may have you meal today."

She didn't react. But Thompson bowed. He slowly turned and disappeared.

She sipped the nectar. It was weaker than Tarlan had made it but any hint of sweet was delicious. Or it would have been if she hadn't seen Thompson.

"It's a pity the original colonists didn't explore the native plants," she said. "There are a number of useful ones."

She was curious why he'd brought up the nectar and showed off Thompson.

"Yes. Indeed. This planet has many possibilities. I'm sure your people will be much relieved when they can be utilized."

He smiled at her. She smiled back, but her's didn't make the skin crawl.

"They will be most grateful." She kept her tone soft and polite.

"I believe there is little to do right now. You may assure them that is a temporary condition."

She already knew that. She'd seen it in the flash of vision that came with the knowledge of her death.

"Do you find my reports sufficient, sir?" she asked.

"I'm very pleased with them. When this annoyance is done, I may recommend you for a higher position in our civil authority. Please consider this in the future."

She smiled at him. It didn't matter what he said. She wouldn't be there to be made into a traitor.

But what about the others? If Jackson had a chance to prove he could be trusted, and his family was safe, he'd take it. How many others would find the easier pathway acceptable until there was nothing else left.

"I will do so."

She finished the nectar, wishing that it hadn't been offered. It was a tiny step towards the line some had already crossed. Had she? Was her attempt to make life a little more tolerable for the others now made up in part by guilt over before?

"Good. We will discuss it further the next meeting."

She was dismissed. Opening the door, the Jem'Hadar was waiting. The Vorta watched her as she left. As Vorta went, he was rather pedestrian. Perhaps he thought he'd found someone to promote in the new scheme of things that might get him further.

He wasn't as clever or devious as some of them. He only thought he was.

Overseeing a group of small captive colonies was as far as he'd ever get, even if one was a little more important than the rest. And he knew it. But if he thought she might get him something more she'd play the game.

Curzon understood even if Jadzia found it repugnant. In whatever time she had left, she'd buy all the good she could from his misconception.

o0o

Dorothy watched the small group of women everyone was calling her "daughters", sitting together in the sun. After several days of rain and dampness everywhere, they had gathered on the sunny morning. Breakfast was done and there was still a chill to the air, but the sun was out and where it was dry enough little groups of people gathered to let it lift a little of the gloom of their existence.

It would have been a perfect day for stories. But since Calla Jackson had run and nearly died, no one was willing to let their children go from their side. Materials for a play area on the upper deck were being gathered, with a fence to keep childish impulse from becoming deadly, but was not yet built. Several of the Daughters had children, and at the center of them, in a space well guarded by all, they played.

But she wasn't watching the play. Sitting a little away, Catherine sat by herself. Tina was worried. Catherine hardly slept, and cuddled the empty blanket she'd made for the child she lost as if it was being held. Dorothy had children lost on both sides of the line, and would not lose more of her family without a fight. There, one could die of execution or sickness–or from simply giving up, as she feared her daughter was on the verge.

She sat close and watched as Catherine looked up, past the blue line, and glared. Her body tensed. They had taken everything from her and Dorothy feared she would not care if they noticed.

Dorothy moved closer as Catherine was staring, eyes fixes on the place Calla had run across the blue pickets, now an ever present part of their lives. She said quietly, "We should be thankful for our good fortune."

Catherine had known better before they had taken so much from her and now didn't care. "Until they kill the next one," she muttered bitterly.

Dorothy turned her full attention to Catherine. "We do not make such assumptions." Dorothy cornered her, her voice steady and cold and insistent. "I learned much from the time I lived on Bajor. This child lived. We celebrate the victories."

Catherine wasn't ready to give in yet. "At least Tessie won't have to grow up in this place," she said grimly. Catherine looked up, plainly staring at the line, and glaring at the Jem'Hadar. Everyone else ignored them unless they were on their side for some sort of business.

Dorothy moved in front of her, blocking her view. "Other children will. Very likely yours." Dorothy looked her in the eyes. "Tessie is dead. As is her father. But you are not. I doubt they want you to join them so soon. Keep that up and you will."

Catherine looked away, but quit staring. Without the anger, all Dorothy could see was the sadness and the loss and the grief. Gently she rose, taking Catherine's hand. "Come," she said.

Catherine obeyed. She tensed as they approached Dorothy's small dwelling, collapsing on the small couch as the door shut. Anger was still mixing with grief but spoke only in a whisper. "Today is my birthday," she said quietly.

"We will celebrate at dinner with a story," said Dorothy.

But Catherine didn't want one. "No reason to celebrate," she said. Dorothy waited as she fumbled with the words. "All I can think of is how they . . . . My sister loved the name Tessie. She'll never know about her. None of them will. I doubt they even think of us anymore."

Dorothy had heard enough. Some of those abandoned there figured it out by themselves, but Catherine wasn't going to. She would not, however, be allowed to wallow herself in self-pity and give up. "*That* isn't important," Dorothy said flatly and coldly, catching Catherine's attention. "*Here* matters. *People* here matter–like your sisters outside, the children you'll have tomorrow, the friends who depend on you. Not the past, and not the ones lost." Dorothy watched as she straightened, resignation filling her eyes. "You are one of my daughters. You have family. Sometimes we just make out own," said Dorothy softly.

Catherine, caught between anger and grief, said with quiet and much bitterness, "They picked him and his child and executed them just as surely as if the Jem'Hadar had done it. Am I to forget that?"

"Yes, they did," said Dorothy crisply. "You are not alone. Nor you sisters. My husband was not in good health. Being trapped here was a death sentence. He knew it. I cared for him for months as he grew weaker. Then one day, he told me he loved me, and was gone." Dorothy forced Catherine to look her in the eyes. "Yes, I miss him. I wish he had not been ill, or we had not been here. But that is all *done*. I am here. You and the others are here. Would he want me to mourn so deeply I was lost?" Catherine tried to look away but was forced back into the stare of the older woman's eyes. "He came to live free, and became a highly educated and respected man. But before that he was born in a place like this. His father died when he was five from an epidemic. He never forgot what it was to be hungry. He knew what it was like to live in fear." She paused, Catherine now entirely captivated by the quiet words. "But he knew that was not *everything*." Dorothy spoke in gentle whispers now. "Even on Bajor living under the Cardassians he knew that he could not allow it to be. He wrote his first poetry on Bajor, beautiful poems of hope. When he was ten his mother disappeared and eventually he ran away. He was very lucky to find escape. Very few did. But he cherished the beauty in life every day, even the life here."

Catherine closed her eyes. She whispered, "We'll never have that gift." There were tears flowing down her cheeks.

Dorothy took her hand, looking her in the eyes, and stroked her hair. "Unless we *give* it to ourselves. If we assume no tomorrow we've already canceled it."

Catherine collapsed, letting Dorothy hold her. Dorothy waited until she had quieted. "Tonight, I will read a poem of hope. It was written here by my husband, one of the few he wrote first in Standard. But it was for us, all of us." Catherine had calmed down. "It will be for your birthday, and those of any others who need reason to go on, but I will not announce it as such unless you want me to."

The younger woman was exhausted, and Dorothy brought a blanket and pillow from her room. Catherine accepted them and stretched out, almost collapsed but now just worn out. "Go ahead," she whispered. "I'm sure there are a few others with birthdays coming up who could use some inspiration."

But as the younger woman arranged the blanket and tucked the pillow under her head to sleep, Dorothy hoped it was just not an act to be played out in secret until it tore her apart.

o0o

James had been counting the days. The food came very regularly and he kept track of the date in his head. He might be a few days off, but thought it was right. Today was his seventeenth birthday.

He lay on his bed, tears stinging his eyes. That day, resting before mealtime, he'd taken a nap. He had dreamed of the birthdays of his past, and the picnic that was family tradition. He had played in the sun as a child again, tumbling with his cousins. He had watched the next generation of children play as he saw the picnics he would not attend. The dream had been so real that he had not remembered the grim reality which he woke to. When the half-dark, stuffy room came into view, he cried.

He had not seen the sun for weeks. With the two others, he had been locked in this room for all but moments a day, when they received their scant rations at dusk. For James, the few moments outside the stuffy room were what he lived for. But not today. Today was his birthday and he wanted to see the sun. He wanted to see the square and at least imagine his party.

A tap at the door brought the three of them to their feet. The latch was opened and the door let in the orange rays of the setting sun. They marched out of the room and waited.

James strained his neck to see over the wall that was obscuring his view. One of the guards was looking at him, and he looked away, as the others had. He was scanned. His little rations pack was handed to him. Rafferson took the new pitcher of water. They were ushered inside. The other two went in the door.

But James could not. Even if it was nearly set, today, he had to see the sun. The hunger and fear were meaningless at the moment. He had to have just one glance, and the wall was in the way. Instead, he started to walk past it.

The orange rays glowed invitingly. His roommates hastily backed further into the room, not daring to make a sound.

"Return *now*!" the guards ordered him back.

But James heard only a distant echo. Instead, perched on one of the buildings in the darkening, bare square was a mocking bird. It's song filled the square and he stopped, staring at it.

It's music was so joyous. Before he'd painted his birds and they'd come to life, the mocking bird called to him. Now, lost in this grim, pale world, the bird shimmered in bright daylight.

He took a step forward. The trees came to fill the square. The little birds started to sing.

Then the park appeared. It was as if his painting had come to life, inviting him inside his dream.

It was full of people. Children played in the grass. His aunts and uncles chatted, their conversations punctuated with laughter. Sitting near the open grass, his grandfather was telling a story, arms waving about in a demonstration of some small detail as he'd always done in James' memories

Then his grandfather stopped, and looked at him.

"Come back, son. We miss you," he said.

James could see the grey world of Cyrus behind him. The Jem'Hadar stood with their rifles ready to shoot. He knew they would kill him if he didn't go back inside.

He couldn't see Rafferson and Morris. They were too far inside. But in front of him was the park. He could see the frame with its delicate designs high above him. His life was there. Everything that mattered existed in that place.

The smell of the dishes they'd brought for lunch filled the air. Sitting together, as if nothing had ever happened between them, his parents looked towards him.

"Jimmy, we love you. It's very lonesome without you." His mother smiled at him and his father put his arm around her.

He knew it wasn't real. He didn't care. Since they'd taken all the pictures in his head nothing mattered anymore.

He stepped forward, the chattering of the birds louder now. He could still see the Jem'Hadar behind him, the rifle pointed and ready to fire. He turned, staring at the greyness.

He didn't move. He saw the guard fire and felt the sudden burning in his belly as it hit him. James fell, all the strength fading in his legs. Bent forward, he could see the park behind him.

But he'd landed in the grass. His belly was clean and healed. His favorite cousin was running towards him, arms held wide.

"Jimmy, we got the best present of anybody here. I got to pick it out."

He hadn't seen his cousin for a long time. He didn't try to get up, but stayed still, watching the life all around him.

Then it faded for a flash. The sky was fading orange and the air was cold. He was so weak he could hardly move.

The Jem'Hadar shoved him to his side with a kick. It hurt, but none of that was real. He could see the door shut behind him, and the guards move onto the next one.

Then the park was back. His cousin had charged and knocked him down. He picked himself up and stood before his grandfather.

"I found some wonderful art things for you. I hear you have a lot of pictures to paint."

"I just wanna be home," said James.

Then everyone was there, crowding around him. The mocking bird sang a cheerful morning song. Somewhere beyond the trees was a dark place, but he had left there for the last time. Now, there were presents to open and a picnic to eat.

Hours later, the morning having dawned, the birds and the trees faded one last time. The grey skies of Cyrus with the first hint of dawn were above him. He was so cold he could barely move. His shirt was soaked in blood, but he could send the pain away by letting himself drift beyond his body.

Several Jem'Hadar were picking him up, dropping him on a stretcher. He watched as his limp body collapsed as they bound him in place.

The doors of the other prison cells were open, their wan inhabitants staring blankly as the Jem'Hadar carried him away.

Rafferson and Morris stared at him. He could see the grief in their eyes. There was no pain anymore. But he was still alive.

He missed his roommates. When the park had been so far away and the canvas incomplete they had cared about him. He wanted them to know he wasn't sorry about his fate. If he could have his pictures back it didn't matter how it came to be.

He knew he was dying.

He couldn't go to them now. Now, he had to hold onto his park and the only life that mattered.

Later, when he lived at the park forever like the aunts and uncles that had passed beyond life, he'd perhaps tell them.

If he could. But now he could tell he was being carried inside a building. The park was still there, but ghostly. The stench of people and blood and disinfectant banished the sweet breezes. The dark square was gone, but a little room had replaced it.

The pain was worse now. But he let go of all that he'd left behind. The park was all around him. There was no grey, no stench, no Jem'Hadar. There was just the trees and the birds and the only life that he allowed to exist.

o0o

James lay on a cot, separate from the other patients in a small room used for the dying. He was awake, staring at something off in the distance, occasionally smiling to himself. Lonnie sat next to him, giving him sips of broth or water when he would take it, otherwise unable to help. He was bleeding internally. There was infection, too, and she felt helpless. He would die in perhaps a day. If he was lucky he would die sooner.

When he'd been brought in and his frigid body warmed, he'd rallied for a time. The bleeding was very slow and insidious, but he had no infection. Warmed up, he had awakened. She'd sat with him. Others volunteered to help but Lonnie refused. In the past year, since the takeover, between the restrictions and the never ending work, she hadn't seen him more than a few times. He kept mumbling to himself, and while much of it was unintelligible, she had understood enough to realize that what had appeared to be coping was an illusion.

He had seemed a little distant, but in the few times she'd seen him she had assumed it to be because he was at work, just as Willman-and herself-expected her staff to keep personal feelings at home. But he'd spoken nonsense in his mumbles, of birds and trees, and of people left behind on Earth. She knew he'd spent all his spare time on the painting. Now, she guessed that he lived inside it.

In his impending death, he was there.

The infection had started not long after his lucid period, and he had lapsed into a delusional state. At least he was happy, she thought. His fever was climbing steadily and would kill him soon enough.

She wasn't treating it. The medicines had to be for those who could recover. She was exhausted and her mind was drifting back to her own childhood, and people and places she had shut out of her mind. She drifted off to sleep.

A few hours later she awoke from a pleasant dream to the grim reality. It was hard to push the dream away. She had been moved to a cot, and one of the nurses was watching. He had been mumbling in his dream when she went to sleep, and she thought he was a little boy again having a birthday.

But now, he was no longer talking, just staring in the occasional moments when he woke. His eyes still followed something in his dream, and he smiled occasionally. But mostly he just slept.

There had been no convulsions. But he was so hot it wouldn't be long until the final stage of his young life was reached. He would be dead within a day.

She didn't want to leave him, but she had other patients to tend to. She left with the nurse holding his limp hand to tend to the living.

Two hours later, she was called back. He had begun convulsing. They stayed with him, holding his shaking hand, talking gently even if he couldn't hear, and saying good-bye.

Lonnie watched and felt nothing. He was dying and she held no power to change that.

An hour later he was gone. She was holding his hand when he jerked very suddenly, his whole body jarred by the severe convolution. But then they stopped. He relaxed, still breathing. She thought he opened his eyes.

But then they closed. Quietly, without any other sign, he took his last breath.

She covered him. The nurse performed a ceremony she had made habit. She'd explained it released the spirit so he could fly free. Lonnie didn't believe in the Bajoran Prophets or their religion, but thought it might help someone. Or maybe he really had been set free the only way he could..

Lonnie was used to death now. There had been so much of it. But sitting in her office, the door shut with a sign she wasn't to be disturbed, all she could remember was the joy in his face when he'd opened his gift for his last birthday, and the excitement he'd radiated about Calder.

She wanted to cry for him, for all of them. But she had no tears, not now, not there. Tears would open up too many other wounds she must keep safely bound away.

Then she looked at the date, and everything made sense. He'd turned seventeen the day he'd been shot. Maybe he thought he was going to his party when he'd wandered into the square.

But he was dead now. She amended the death certificate, listing his age as 17. Then she put the pin in its little bag, and dropped the sheet in the pile with the others.

Two more of the surgery patients had died that week. She had tried. They were almost recovered but in the end a raging infection had killed them, along with the others who's final record sat in her box. They'd shot James, but they were all victims. The method of execution didn't matter much anymore.

She'd tend to his body herself. That would be her one concession.

For now, she was behind in her work. She left to help the living, since she could do nothing for the dead.

o0o

Kira Neres had retreated to the back of her loop of cavern, pulled the curtain and was sitting quietly. Narven was getting restless. She'd convinced them that without knowing what they were fighting, they didn't stand a chance. Odo would be back, she'd said, having planned a long reconnaissance. But it had been slightly over a month since he'd left, and they were growing convinced he was dead. She'd let them do quick food runs since otherwise there would have been little to eat, but the last one had nearly turned disastrous, since they'd nearly gotten caught, but nobody knew where they'd come from and they'd made it back safely. Luckily, they'd gotten the Dominion cakes home too. They were hard and chewy, the taste foreign and hardly pleasant, but cooked until soft they filled the stomach easier.

She had convinced Narven to ration them, so they were a little hungry, but could hold out longer. And with food, they were less impatient to go fight the enemy. But even if Odo had *planned* on a longer journey, she didn't think it should have taken this long. Sitting in the dark, wondering what happened when she lost Narven's confidence completely or he lost the trust of his increasingly desperate troops, she hadn't heard until Narven himself roared into her nest. "I stand corrected. Your changeling friend is indeed alive. I think he would like to see you."

She knew that Narven would see the relief, but didn't really care right then. "When?" she said.

"A short while ago. He brought us more food, those cakes but it is better than starvation. We rushed to store them before they were seen."

She was following Narven to the 'general assembly' area. But her relief in seeing Odo was dampened a little by the first distant glance.

He looked tired. Or worn, or worried or some other less than changeling look. The closer she got to him, the stronger the feeling. He looked like Odo. But he looked older. Changelings didn't age. "I would like to speak in private," he said. "Make sure it's stored very securely. I have doubts about another trade being possible."

She didn't much like the way he'd put it, especially in front of them. But she took his hand and led him back into the nest. Pulling him inside her curtained sanctuary, she could feel him collapse. "They thought you were dead. I was beginning to wonder if we had lost you," she said, seeming to ignore the weakness.

"I went much further than I intended. Do you think you can talk them into leaving here as refugees? There isn't much left to fight here. And something very odd is happening further out. Central Authority is running the major camps all by themselves. I witnessed a group of Jem'Hadar trading the locals they'd captured and the food the locals had stolen for white. Something has gone rather terribly bad for the Dominion, I think."

She almost asked him what was wrong with him, but if he felt like telling her he would. "I don't think they'd ever do that. I convinced them they needed to have current knowledge, but if that's the best you can suggest, they'd rather die."

"They won't die. They'll be captured. Then they'll be sold to the blacksuits. CA has apparently cut off the white from this area. That is why so many of their rations are here. The Jem'Hadar are being told by the Vorta that they are following the orders of my people, but they're rounding up the locals with food as a lure so CA can slave them instead. The Vorta gets white so long as he cooperates. If these try something they'll just be merchandise." He took her hand in the dark, kissing it gently. "We must leave before that. We have some time. The providence next to here is where the thieves mostly operate, so they'll let their mercenaries clean it up first. A rather brisk 'Trade' has popped up here and steals all they can. They wish to wipe that out first, and if the Jem'Hadar will do it for them I'm sure the Vorta will continue to lie to them."

He had laid down, and seemed less weak, but she was still worried. "I can't tell them that. They'll just stop listening entirely. We've been exploring the cave system. There's a few other ways in and out. There is one which would get us completely out of the area but they don't know about it."

"Good, we'll need that. Right now, they have to stay out of sight. My last weeks were exhausting. I haven't been able to properly regenerate or rest. But somehow while the deal which resulted in our current bounty was being made, the supposedly real destination was leaked. They have no idea where we are, but when they come upon the Traders they think it went to, they'll have plenty to do for at least a month. Probably more. I will need some privacy and rest, but you are welcome of course."

She sat up, staring into the darkness. "I'll come up with something to tell Narven. He'd cooperate, but not the rest. But they do understand that this bounty as you describe it will be looked for so I can keep them working on cavern duty. Narven thinks we can hide a big army down here, and pick them off. I've been encouraging him, but it doesn't sound like there's much left to make it up."

Then Odo's tone changed, and she stared towards him in great curiosity. "There is a growing army out there who will fight, and are a lot smarter than your lions out there. And they'll have the patience to wait for when it is *time*. But before then, they do as they are told. And nobody will know they are there."

She lay back down, against him, and he held her. "Is something wrong, Odo? You seem," she said.

"Tired. Not enough resting. Perhaps each moment wondering if the creature I was would be a tasty meal for someone. May I stay here? I may revert, if you'll let me. I'd like to be near you."

"I need to talk to Narven but for as long as we stay this is your home."

He took her hand and kissed it, and she wished Narven could wait, but he promised to hold off until she returned.

Narven was waiting. He understood they had to all stay out of sight, but with supplies could make better plans for the army. She left him to dream.

But settling down behind her curtain, Odo took her in his arms, the tension ebbing, and as sleep took him, the goo bathed her and the blanket and she felt as if for a little while, they were one.

o0o

The ration cubes came. There was never much and only enough water to keep him from growing too delirious. He dropped the cubes into the cup to soften and soak them. Hard and sticky, they were too dry to eat.

Julian still slept most of the time, but not so soundly. His dreams were no longer a refuge, and when he was awake he was obsessed by the hatred he'd grown for the Vorta. He had stolen and mangled his memories. He would survive because he had to be alive to destroy the Vorta. It didn't particularly matter if he lived through his revenge, as long as Glebaroun didn't. And when he dreamed, it was in surreal visions of hell.

They stood in a circle of death, chanting the song slowly and methodically.

"Ring around the rosy,

Pocket full of posies's

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down."

And then they stopped and waited for the sacrifice to be done.

They stood silent. All were very calm, and very patient. The cycle repeated in its own time and the sacrifice would come when it was ready. The remains of the others taken before were scattered on the grounds, many crumbled to dust already.

Then, slowly one of the Jem'Hadar stumbled forward and fell. The swelling in the armpits and groin began and started to ooze blood and pus. Boils and black blotches formed on the skin. The pain of the dying was obvious, as he quickly wasted away. The foul smell of rot filled the air.

And he died, like the others, watched by the circle. The living again took hands and repeated the death song, chanting with care so that the magic be preserved.

The cycle repeated. A human fell that time, a child. The death came in the same manner, though quicker. The Jem'Hadar had already gone to the worms. The next cycle was a Bajoran, who stumbled and fell, the Jem'Hadar little more than bones. It repeated again, a human female, and the bones were mostly dust. Another Jem'Hadar fell next, while the last blew away in a gust of breeze, then a Bajoran male, and so on.

The cycles never stopped, and new bodies replaced the dead in an endless dark carousel. At the center, directing the circle was the Vorta, Glebaroun, who nodded and recorded and watched but did not die.

The chant went on again, and he sang it methodically, "ashes, ashes, we all fall down." All but one. Each time he wished it to be his turn, and yet was denied. He watched Glebaroun as he chanted, and the dark magic grew inside his soul.

The hands were joined. The chant was done. A dark presence touched him, pulling him forward. He stumbled out of the circle, wary and ready.

All watched, waiting for him to fall. The Vorta looked up, noting something down but showing little interest.

But he kept walking, straight towards the Vorta.

Glebaroun looked up, a little annoyed but mostly amused. The violet eyes showed the first hint of surprise as his intended victim was standing directly in front of him still quite alive and unharmed

.

Hands were joined. The circle was still but everyone watched the Vorta. He scowled as a finger came pointing at his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn't get the chance.

He was the man who did not die, but not this time.

The finger lowered, reached towards his hand. Warm, living human skin touched the cool, pale Vorta's hand. Glebaroun tried to jerk it away, but could not move his hand at all.

"You're it." The finger was removed and the hand dropped with sudden weakness. The One Who Did Not Die stared at the one who had not. Then the chosen stepped back to the circle and rejoined the circle of hands.

The Vorta stood, then fell in a sudden weakness. Lying on the ground, helpless to rise, the eruptions began. The breeze stirred the ashes of the recently dead, as he slowly became the last victim.

Even before death took him, the worms were busy.

The Vorta, puller of strings, was gone.

The circle broke, split, and reformed into three, the smaller towards the center. They walked slowly, hands still joined, chanting the chant. The inner and outer circles moved to the left, the middle one to the right. With each round of the circle, the chant grew in power.

And it changed. What had been a call for death had taken on the sing song tones of a children's play song. Even the voices which filled the valley sounded younger and higher and laughed in between the songs.

Then, possessed of an energy they had not known before, they skipped around the circles, singing loudly and with glee.

As what had been Glebaroun became powder and spread under their feet, they danced on his grave.

Then the circles stopped. They were fidgety, and impatient as children sometimes come to be. Moving slowly in one last ring and chant, the survivors slowed down, but sang out the words impatiently.

Then they fell.

The wind blew. The dark sky above began to lighten. A bright sun rose and at its touch the ground became green with a carpet of grass.

The fallen remained and the sun lit the sky with yellow brightness. No worms had touched them.

The sun lit the new land, but passed along its journey to night. As the sky wore a bright glow of gold with the setting sun, the dancers started to wake. But they were no longer old and lost and somber. The were a circle of children, the oldest perhaps five, now dressed brightly in finery of their own design.

They skipped in a circle, once, singing the nursery rhyme and giggling, then stopped. Running, they did the work of children and played.

He woke with the laughter of children in his mind, a hope of renewal, and even more the afterglow of power and the satisfaction of revenge. He knew it was a dream, but having lost everything else, he let it give him a reason to go on. Without that there would be nothing.

o0o

Mac lay collapsed on the floor of the cell, moving as little as he must. The slot where the meager rations dropped was close enough to reach, but he had seen few, and only scraps of them. He was past hunger. Vaguely, he knew that was bad but didn't care. He'd lost track of time since the isolation cell but had not really known how long before that.

He made them curious. In their world there was a hierarchy. Sisko talked to the Department Heads. They talked to the Sub-Department heads. Either managed the senior staff who managed the rest. But he was a sub-department head who managed a staff who worked in all the departments, and he consulted with the one department which was informally set up. He broke the rules, and his authority was far magnified above his title.

They wanted to know why. Or he guessed that was why he had drawn such concentrated attention. He'd been questioned so many times he didn't remember the questions anymore, or much of what had been so he could answer. They'd tied his feet to pegs and beat him when he didn't answer, but eventually he couldn't and they just rendered him unconscious.

He'd come to in the isolation cell. They'd fed him depending on his answers, insufficient of late, and he had not seen much food. Then it came at random, maybe a half of a cake if he was lucky. The pain and cravings were already gone and the weakness had set in as his body consumed itself.

He wished it didn't take so long to die when you starved to death.

His feet had been so bruised he could not put weight to them, and were still intensely painful when they door opened and two Jem'Hadar dragged his limp body up and out of the cell. They didn't need restraints. He was too weak for that need now. But it wouldn't help them to ask questions. Even if he could remember much about what they were talking about he wouldn't. It had become his best option to let them overtax his weakened body and just let him die.

But they wrapped a blanket around him and stood him on throbbing feet, and for the second time he felt the odd sensation of their transporter. The cell had been pitch black, and the light from the early morning sun blinded him. Trying to hide his face from it he just shut his eyes tight and looked down.

Then they ordered him to walk. Stabs of pain shot through his feet and legs and he nearly collapsed before they had gotten him past a bridge with rough, painful ridges to soft, mossy ground. He knew where he was now, or hoped. But every bit of energy had gone and he could not move. They dragged him a little ways, preparing to let go and let him fall when a familiar voice, sounding as if it came from a long, long way away filtered through his fog.

"No, don't drop him. I'll take him." Emery. Michael was familiar and comforting, but he still wished he could die and it be over.

"Take him now," grunted the guard, forcing Duncan on to his feet and the pain nearly making him faint.

Arms reached around him, and took the weight. The pain lessened. He leaned all his weight on Michael as someone yelled to get Sarah.

No, he thought, no, not like this. She shouldn't see him like this.

But he was gently lowered to the mossy ground and another blanket put under his head, covering his eyes from the light. He lay there, bewildered and unsure if it was real or some kind of starvation inspired dream until Sarah screamed his name and was laying on top of him, sobbing uncontrollably. There were other voices he could remember, but not who they were, telling her to be careful, to back away a little.

He wanted to believe but couldn't really tell if it was real but was too exhausted to move as everything faded into blackness and peace.

o0o

Ray sat the box of cakes, carefully counted and recorded, by the women who broke them into pieces. Tara had tried, but she was so tired she had to stop. They still left their sad little home each day, Walter's room still untouched, the door not opened. It was as if somehow he'd come home if they didn't disturb his things. Ray knew he'd never help if there had been something formal and official, not with the taint it would carry, but somehow Dax didn't make it feel that way.

Since their hungry days at the beginning, when the half-ration had seemed like a lot, they were beginning to feel the effects of malnutrition already. Everyone was tired. The preoccupation of each day was meals and he knew that most would do whatever they were told just to eat. With Tara and little Walter at stake, he knew he would too. But along with the hunger, there was resignation. It was a time to get through. But how long? Willman's writings had been read by enough of them to make them afraid for their children. Already, they didn't seem childlike anymore. When food appeared, a silence fell over them as everything else faded into nothingness. Tara ate every bite, but she still wasn't feeling better.

But lunch was over. The cakes he had brought were for the next meal. He'd been put in charge of accounting for the cakes, and once they'd been moved to the cooks, he had other work to do.

He detoured by Tara, sitting near a group of women reading a story aloud, just listening. She said she was fine. He wished he could believe her, but there wasn't anything anyone could do.

Slipping into the office, he remembered the way the suits had treated them almost as invisible before. But she didn't. He took his seat, Dax handing him his folder. She waited while he set up his list. "How is your wife doing? I know you're worried about her."

He could tell she was sincere. "Tired. She sleeps a lot. She looks at Walter's door all the time. But I know there's nothing anyone can do."

She looked at him, and he saw confidence in her eyes, and purpose. It was so hard to feel that way for the rest. "I'm hoping to get permission to have a nurse come and check on our people soon. But I suppose you should get that done so I can finish this," she said.

He didn't see how the Vorta would allow it, but then he wasn't going to ask any unnecessary questions either. Walter had taken his stand, but he hadn't had a family, and now that Ray did he understood how that made all the difference. And maybe Walter would never know it, but little Walter would learn to share the dream his namesake had abandoned, and Ray would teach him how much it mattered.

o0o

Walter Vance sat on the floor of the dark cell, staring at the door. He even daydreamed about food. For many days they'd taken him out of the cell to the little room with the swivel chair. They kept asking him questions about the project. But he couldn't answer most of them. Justin had gotten so far beyond his own understanding of the process years before that he didn't know how most of it worked.

He hoped he had convinced them that he couldn't tell them anything and they would end this punishment. Justin had assumed disinterest, but Walter was only intelligent. Justin was brilliant, and concepts which were simple to him were difficult for Walter to grasp.

But he'd done his work, promoting what their process could do. He told his tormentors about that. When they ask him to explain specific things he tried, but hoped it was obvious that he just didn't know.

He never told them that he knew, that they had given him everything he wanted before they took it away. It puzzled him why they were asking so many questions when they had seen every last scrap of their work already. And he knew nothing about the new, simpler process that had been tested near the cave. But they persisted in asking him questions about it anyway.

And as Walter got more and more hungry, as rations became his only meal and then briefly became few, as food had come to dominate every thought, he'd tried harder. He'd fielded questions from investors, and answered theirs in much the same way. No matter how advanced Justin had gotten, he could still describe the basic workings of the process. For awhile the dogs and ponies did their job. Walter got more to eat for a little while.

But they kept asking about things he couldn't tell them.

He didn't question if it was right to answer anymore. The bits of information he told them were not a secret. If it bought him food, he'd tell them whatever he could figure out.

Then they'd reviewed the history of the project with him. For a short time he was seldom even hungry, able to give all the details that bought decent meals. Each day had become a ritual of waking and waiting, following the guards and answering every question with as much detail as he could muster from his fading memory. Then they'd feed him. It wasn't the spongy cakes of the last year, but real food, and when he was very good, his own personal requests.

He'd dreamed about the children he'd grown up with who had taught him that food was precious and life giving, and no matter how many replicators and how much abundance in his life he never forgot it.

But they'd gone past what he knew. He'd kept trying, but the dogs and ponies had lost their touch and couldn't dance anymore. The food had gotten more meager and basic. When they got to the last few years when he'd spent his entire time promoting and cajoling for Justin, he couldn't give them enough to get even three stingy meals.

Then they'd stopped taking him to the room. They fed him only the minimal starvation diet he'd been given before the questions. His stomach kept hurting after that, and he wished that he'd stayed with Justin instead of refusing a pin or any rank.

Then he'd know the answers. Then he'd have enough to eat.

But he was getting weak now. They hadn't come for too long. A guard pushed a bowl of crumpled ration with water inside each day, and *that* had become the highlight of his life.

The diet wasn't killing him, but he was quickly weakening. The cubes were hard to chew with his gums tender. Willman had written about the effects of malnutrition in his book, and Walter tried not to notice how many of them he had now.

But Willman had survived. Somehow, he'd find a way to make himself useful if they'd let him. Somehow, he'd get enough to eat.

Once in a while he got more. He'd sit it aside and nibble on it all day as the cubes got softer. His head would clear, and he'd wonder, again, why they were asking all those details of the project of *him* when the one who could tell them was Justin.

Justin had worn a pin. He'd risked disaster for everyone to keep the project alive. Walter knew his old partner enough to be sure that if they'd let him do it, he'd tell them anything they wanted to know, especially if he got to have it back..

Walter listened at the door, hoping to hear it open. The bowl was empty. The footsteps were coming, heavy clumping steps of the guards, stopping every so often while they opened the section of the doors to feed their caged animals.

The bowl came. Walter crawled across the floor and gently dragged it to his spot. Dipping fingers inside and tearing a piece of ration free, he forgot about Justin and the project and the questions for a little while.

o0o

Mac had been moved to a bed, the inner blanket taken off, and the filthy clothes cut away. He had lost a lot of weight, and had bruises not completely healed. Passed out, he looked almost peaceful but shuttered when his feet, badly bruised and swollen, were touched. A general summary was written up of his condition, and someone who could be justified to need the hospital found to be taken there with a message. It was hoped they'd return with the reply instead of their escorts but aside from sleep and food nobody knew what to do.

But he was one of sixteen who had been taken and the only known one returned. If he was in this kind of shape, it was hard to hold out hope for any of the rest. He had not stirred, even when Sarah had sponged off some of the dirt. The broth from the soup was brought and small amounts dribbled in his mouth and he swallowed. But they had been warned if any were returned and not fed to take care and send a message. If the hospital wasn't the pest spot it was, he should have gone there but nobody was willing to take that risk.

Michael sat by him, Sarah having been sent home to rest. It had been many hours and hope was fading for a reply from Medical that day. He remembered when the Jem'Hadar had found him at Shandra's quarters and beat him as payment. Mac had seen far worse. Several of their own had rudimentary training from the Winter, and checked what they could. They did not think he was otherwise injured past the bruises and starvation. But Willman hadn't trained them for this.

As Michael stared at the dim light coming in the window, hoping if the others had this done to them instead of wasting away alone before they died, it was quick. But he heard a small sound of movement. Mac was on his back, covered except for his head, which lay on a pillow. But he had his hand around the blanket.

"Mac?" asked Michael softly.

The hand froze as if discovered and he fought the impulse to put his own over it. He leaned over and spoke softly instead. "It's okay. Your home. Sarah was with you all day but she needed to rest."

At her name, for just a flash, Mac opened his eyes. Then he closed them but he seemed less tense then. He'd been instructed to offer a little broth if he woke but small amounts spread out. He held the spoon where Mac could see it and ask if he wanted broth. Their was a vague awareness in his eyes as he looked again, trying to focus.

But he opened his mouth, and Michael dribbled in a spoonful of broth. He gave him several more but stopped, fearful it would be too much. He thought he saw disappointment in Mac's eyes, but he closed them soon and fell asleep.

Michael thought of those who were still missing and wondered if they saw them again if they'd even recognize who they were, or know them when they could. Leaning back, he rested against the wall until Mac woke and it had been enough time or Medical's instructions had arrived and he would not feel so helpless.

o0o

Blanchard was awake, but well past ever answering questions. He stared up at the ceiling, eyes following the creatures of his dreams. Around him was a complex medical system imported from the Gamma quadrant along with the doctors brought there to save his life. Blanchard himself was hardly aware of them, perhaps hearing their alien words now and then, tucking them into his dreams. A monitor showed his level of consciousness, drifting in and out now.

The doctors had tried to tap the images in his brain, but the poison had been so destructive the memories were lost. They'd reported that it was likely he didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there. He wasn't brain dead, but far past even the advanced system Glebaroun had brought to save him.

When the Jem'Hadar had come to take him, Justin Blanchard was in his bed, sick with one of the frequent attacks he suffered. Dr. Willman had been questioned about his treatments. He had tried to put Blanchard in the hospital, but had concluded he would do better in the quiet of his room. There was nothing Willman could do, anyway. Blanchard's lungs were too damaged to ever really recover with what Willman had available.

Glebaroun had made a terrible mistake. If he'd taken Blanchard when he could have, after the test, the doctors could have helped. The Bajoran would recover but Blanchard was the architect of the project. Vance was only the mouth that promoted it.

They'd listened, intrigued with the possibilities. Then, waiting until Vance was so desperate he'd take anyone's sponsorship, they'd offered him everything he ever wanted. Cyrus was covered in what Vance believed to be useless soil and worthless plants. The settlement was small and isolated. The colony could have anything they wanted as long as detailed reports went back to them. But the experts were sometimes perplexed by what appeared to be inconsistent results.

The replicator had been a special gift. It had been meant to encourage them to experiment, since Vance had this odd idea that replicators were only for special things. This one was to belong only to the project. Unbeknownst to them, it also transmitted to their sponsors every detail of what it was used for.

They'd known about the things made in the cave, and the experiments that followed as soon as they were done. It was disappointing that the two men hadn't simply replicated the formula, rather than insisting on mixing it themselves. It would have been so much simpler. Blanchard would be healthy and alive.

That had been another miscalculation on his part. Once the contamination was known, he should have moved, even before Willman had a chance to mis-diagnose it. Blanchard wouldn't have killed himself that way. When they realized what he and Tarlan were trying to do, they'd watched and waited. He'd had to warn Sisko about the contraband and other things, and the test, or someone might have caught on.

But the pressure just inspired their subjects. Tarlan had been a fortunate surprise. The crackdown was planned all along, too. But it had been held until secret samples of their last test had proven that it worked, even if not perfectly. Now, all they needed was the formula and they could perfect it on their own.

He'd watched as Sisko and his people had tried to find and destroy the hidden contraband, privately pleased. But he couldn't let on. Sisko had done as he expected, and when the Jem'Hadar had come, everyone was already used to being controlled.

But the experiment wasn't done, even if it worked perfectly. The little test done hastily in the mountains wasn't enough. Blanchard and Tarlan's project was his now. He would need someone to run it.

He had made too many mistakes, something currently likely to prove more than simply fatal. He'd have to make up for them. Willman had known about the damage, and his scans with the tricorder would implicate the Vorta as a failure. Blanchard was too important to have been left to die.

He'd hoped the alien doctors could save the man. But the chemicals had poisoned his body too fully. They'd stopped the damage, but Justin Blanchard only knew the dreams that had replaced his knowledge and memories now.

He didn't even know what terraforming was anymore. Once it was confirmed that the brain mapping would not harm him, they'd tried to find it. Blanchard had awakened and only looked bewildered until he had slipped back into his own world.

The project, all the efforts to make it a reality, all the hours of research were gone. He remembered nothing of the last months at all. He wasn't afraid of them, but simply peered at them in great childlike curiosity. When he had been awake and talked, each time they entered the room he had asked who they were, able to remember neither the answer nor having asked the question.

Slowly he slipped into a world of his own and from there into his current state of semiconsciousness.

Vance had known about the beginning, but little more. The Vorta touched a button on his desk. Vance lay against the wall of his cell, entirely consumed by his bowl of ration. He looked pale and wan, his face thinned and covered in a ragged beard. He might be allowed to live, if Tarlan didn't work out. Otherwise . . . .

Another button showed the pale and still body of Blanchard, awake for the moment, but drifting in some sort of dream.

He shut off the monitor. He didn't really trust the Bajoran. But for now, he was all that was left.

Tomorrow, the doctors would examine Tarlan to see how badly he'd damaged himself. Blanchard had been easy to treat, too far gone to worry about his catching on. But the Bajoran would take more care.

He'd leave it up to the doctors. When he was well enough to ask questions, Vance and Blanchard would cease to matter. He studied the brief file they'd assembled on their prisoner and smiled to himself. Most conveniently, Tarlan had a family living on Bajor.

Glebaroun didn't understand why it worked. He had no concept of their ways of reproducing. But those with children could be made to do almost anything.

o0o

Lonnie Broadman had retreated to her office, saying she needed to write the note about Mac, but it was only partly true. She kept thinking about how Julian had gone limp as they dragged him away. Was he alive? If he was had they been tormenting him to where he wanted to die instead of live? Would she even know him if she got him back?

A little of her was glad she couldn't go down the hill to examine Duncan herself. Maybe it would be too hard to shut out the feelings faced with the first example in front of her.

But she did have letters to write, specific instructions to his wife, to Emery or the other staff, and to the two of the Winter helpers who at least knew how to check him for complications. They would be primary caregivers until he was stronger. He was to be kept isolated from others except the select few, and anyone who was ill, or had family who was ill. They were to keep checking for the moss, for it should be growing soon if it wasn't already, to augment the broth. But nothing solid yet. And he should sleep. What she didn't say was that if there were internal injuries there was nobody who could fix them even on the hill. And if he didn't want to live, he wouldn't.

She folded up the letters, each with its recipient's name on the front. Jabara would be sending one dealing with his mental state, when he was fully awake, but he would sleep most of the time for a while. The woman who'd been brought was going home. If nothing else, Duncan by being sent back then had made her come for treatment before she was worse and recovery was uncertain. Maybe if some of those who had waited until they were too sick to refuse had come earlier, they would not be lying with no certainty of survival now.

But the hospital was still busy and she had taken as long as she could and she didn't see any of them as they were allowed out the door to go home.

o0o

Calla Jackson giggled as she tore the wrapping from the present. Her brother Jeffery sat nearby, gathering the pieces before she could tear them too small for use. What would have been trash a year before was now saved until all the possible uses were done. Calla wore a harness with a leash, the other end tied to her brother's arm. He had not let her out of his sight since the day childhood had fled.

Without the harness, he would have been just as attentive. He had always been a studious child, much more reserved than other children his age, but since that terrible day she had wandered over the blue line, the last shreds of innocence were stripped away. At five years old, he vowed to keep his sister alive.

Calla was not the only child wearing the harness; most of the younger children did. The leads had been removed, so the children could play in the fenced off area built shortly after the incident, but they did not leave it without being under control.

Jadzia had stressed, very specifically, that the next child would die. They'd killed eight people to make a point already. She didn't have to do more than remind them that anyone who stepped past the line was dead.

Children could run too easily. They didn't pay enough attention to where they went. It would be far too easy to have it happen again.

The day after Calla's near death her father had held her, visibly harnessed, as a reminder. The meeting was for all adults who lived with children. Many others had come, seeking news and something to do.

She had been very blunt. The Vorta did not want any more incidents. It interfered with the orderly supervision of the colony. Nor did they want to see anyone else die.

Jackson sat in full view with his children. She required them to keep their children under restraint. For once, she did not make it voluntary. All adults in a household that did not comply would have their rations cut.

But the fence had been built, and the weather was improving. The mud was awful, but the rain water was collected for baths and washing clothes. The rains were wet but not especially cold.

The children liked the mud. With so little to play with, that was important.

Calla's birthday was an occasion. All the other children were there. Some of the adults tried hard to look cheerful, but it was very difficult. It just reminded them of children left behind on Bajor or lost behind the line that divided them from whatever remained of the Federation.

And a birthday demanded presents. The clothes and other more practical items were placed in a box, unwrapped. Calla didn't care about those.

The ones everyone wanted to see were the toys.

Calla pulled the last piece of wrapping from the gift and squealed with delight. It was a rag doll, made with knots and stuffing.

It wasn't fancy, but little girls would always love dolls. Fascinated by her doll, she ignored the rest while she pulled and twirled and played.

Jeffrey had left childhood behind, but his sister was still lucky enough to be a child.

o0o

Michael Emery, standing near the back where no one would notice the tears in his eyes, smiled a half smile. He had made one for his daughter once, and she had cherished it above all the more ornate toys a replicator could make. When she left the station with her mother, she'd been clutching that doll, worn from use, to her as she cried. Michael missed her intensely that moment. No matter how much it hurt to think of it, he would have given anything to hold her one last time.

Needing a little privacy, he backed away. Outside was a pale blue sky, so different than home. He tried to remember a clear night sky with a full moon, but it was so hard to visualize.

His Tasha might be looking at one now. She'd have grown a lot in a year. He wondered if he'd even recognize her after a little more time had passed.

Then a hand touched his shoulder and he saw Shandra standing there, the baby asleep in her carrier. "Sorry I was late. She fussed a lot. I think she missed you."

He loved this Tasha, too. And without her mother he might not have cared about the mean hard world they'd fallen into. But he still loved his wife and child left on Earth. Sometimes it felt like it would tear him apart.

But of late he'd come to know that here and now, he also loved Shandra. She was more than a companion. She shared his life. When this Tasha was old enough she'd get a rag doll too, and he would make it with special love and care.

He hadn't fathered her, but was her father anyway.

He'd even started hoping his wife would find someone to give his daughter the love he could not. He couldn't imagine this Tasha not having a father to love her.

"That's all right. You made it in time for the important part," he said.

The rest of the toys had been opened and the feast was about to begin. There was no cake or candles; but everyone in attendance had helped gather the mossy grass that had begun to grow. It made the broth thick and gravy like, and it's flavor was different.

The cakes had been soaked in the spice, and served with the gravy. It was a special meal in a time when *every* meal mattered. But Michael had found a small patch of the moss a few days before, and with Dax's permission had organized the gathering of it. They'd used it the year before to thicken the sauce, but everyone there would remember it's flavor with a little bit of joy.

For it was a celebration. Amid the worry and fear, they celebrated the life of one child, who by all rights should not have been alive to have a first birthday. In their grim new world there were few victories, and those few were cherished.

Tomorrow, they would go back to the same dreary days, but the memory of this one little victory over death would still be remembered.

End, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 6


	8. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 7

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 7

Walter Vance sat in his favorite corner of the cell, the one with a clear view of the door. He could see a shadow underneath, and had a few seconds to wonder what they wanted before it was demanded of him.

Since they'd started starving him again, they hadn't wanted much of anything. He'd been taken out once, and some odd looking aliens had examined him. They'd given him a few injections, but no food.

Since then the days had all been the same. The watery cake came each day. He still looked forward to it, but it was as much for the measure of time passing now as for the food. It didn't fill him enough to stop the pain. He was used to it now. Sometimes he thought the dishes that filled his dreams were as real as the cakes. But he ate them. It was another part of his day that came and went.

He didn't move much. He was too weak. Occasionally, he thought it astonishing that the trip across the floor for the cakes made him so tired.

The rest of the time he sat watching the door, hoping they'd come. But he didn't look forward to the room again. He'd had time to think about the questions and dinners they'd given, as if they were rewarding a dog for behaving.

He would not be an animal to be tamed.

Lying on the floor of his cell, his clothes filthy and his body wasting away, shame had banished the desperation and he vowed to remember how they had thought they owned him already.

The filth that covered his body could be washed, but the taint of his eager answers would never be scraped away. In his hunger and weakness, he had nearly become like Sisko.

But in the end, he would save himself. He wanted them to come and ask again. They had to know he would no longer betray his soul. Sisko had chosen to become the enemy, but he would not.

The Vorta had stolen his dream. It perplexed him why they ask so many questions about the project when they didn't need to, but remembered how they'd continually repeated the requests to make it more simple during their own dog and pony show. In the end Justin had done as they wished. Justin could still run with it if he wanted to. If they couldn't cure Justin then his Bajoran friend could soil himself by accepting the bargain. Walter would never be clean, but would not add more filth to his soul. He would not betray the friends left on Cyrus or the memory of his father and the dream he had inherited.

The dream that was as dead as Walter would be when they tired of him entirely.

There was noise. He watched with anticipation since the feet stopped outside his cell.

The door was yanked open. Three of them stood there. One stepped inside.

"Out," he was ordered.

He was so tired. The exhaustion was so immense he didn't think he could even stand. But he would not die wasting away in their grubby little box without taking one.

He pushed himself against the wall. "No," he said.

The guard moved forward and the other pushed his way inside. They stomped up to Walter, pressed against the wall.

They reached down to grab him. He knew they'd drag him out. At least he would not go willingly.

But as they touched him a sudden surge of adrenalin made him strong for a moment. He jerked away from them, pulling to the side. Then, he kicked the nearest one.

It wasn't much of a kick, and Walter was exhausted. He sunk down to the floor, unable to move.

He didn't feel much of the beating, already too weakened. The surge of energy had left him as limp as a ragdoll, and the guards pulled him up by the shoulders.

Walter slumped in their grip while the hit him. He didn't even react. The Jem'Hadar were blurry phantoms in his haze.

When they were done, the guard let go of him and he crashed to the floor. He hit his head as he fell, his eyes fluttering shut as a welcome blackness covered the painful haze rising around him.

o0o

Glebaroun had been notified that Blanchard was in a deep coma. The tests showed his brain was dying. Blanchard could have been an important man. He could have *had* his project and all the resources he wanted to perfect it. Had the Vorta not failed, instead of watching him die he might have been rewarding him by saving his Bajoran friend.

He'd have to save the man now. It was unfortunate. Blanchard would have cooperated without question. He'd have to be careful with the Bajoran.

Vorta were more important than Jem'Hadar, but the Founders didn't tolerate mistakes like the one he had made, especially as it weakened their rivalry with the others. Unless he could convince the Bajoran to work with the aliens, his next copy would replace him and he'd have a most unpleasant death.

He'd noticed how some of the prisoners clung to life no matter what was done to them. It was perhaps the only thing he shared with them, because he himself did not want to die.

Blanchard would die in peace. His mind had faded so fully he was barely aware of anything. The doctors had recommended letting him go since there was nothing more anyone could do.

One of the doctors entered, and the Vorta spoke into the translator. "How long?" he asked, looking down at the small doctor.

"Difficult to say. But not a great deal of time. Life support is off. He will not wake."

"What about the Bajoran?"

"His health has been restored. He is receiving reasonable nutrition as well."

"Good, I'll speak with him in perhaps a week."

The Vorta watched as the readout ceased to move and the light started to blink.

The Bajoran didn't know that he held the power of life and death. Glebaroun had no intention of allowing him to find out. But he'd already had the man's family located and was relieved that they were alive. They had been transferred to an internment camp and would be in much better condition when they arrived on Cyrus. A few hints to the Bajoran should make sure he understood the reward that waited for him.

The doctors were shutting down the machine. Blanchard's still body was peaceful now. The Vorta did not let on that with his death, all of them stood on the verge of disaster.

o0o

A week past the new matts, and Greason's surprise find in his, life had improved in the barn. The small, abundant lifeforms on the old matts had launched their assault on the new ones, and the day before they had returned to the sweet smell of a decon. For a little while, there would be only a small colony of fuzzies as they were brought back inside, and as they passed to the blacksuits with their spring duties, the decons would become more frequent.

So had an infection being passed from person to person, settling in cuts and sores. Megan had cut her leg and the doctor sent for when it swelled. The infection was being treated, but she was given a respite from rain and muck in the meanwhile. The spring season was being set up in earnest now, and other supplies were needed. A supply room had been opened, with a lower level suit running it, but he needed help. To her great surprise, suspecting that Greason was trying to make up a little with Dan, she had been assigned as his clerk. Two others, both military and vetted not in the trade, retrieved the merchandise.

Either Greason had suggested it, she thought, or they liked her background, but now she sat in a chair processing paperwork. For minor bits of supply, at least they had been before, the process had become very elaborate. They arrived with their request and she copied all the information on her list. Someone authorized checked that it was genuine and issued a confirmation number. Then the merchandise arrived, and if there was a serial number it too had to be recorded. The customer and the one authorizing things both signed, and it was verified that all her codes and numbers were right.

That way if it showed up in the wrong place they could trace where it came from. Everyone present, including her, hoped that never happened. She suspected the Trade was still flourishing despite executions and slashings and the general nervous way the suits were acting.

Greason, according to Dan, had started keeping his distance from them, but that wouldn't save him when someone eventually slipped. They should have been moved out, but slashies dealt in Trade too, and until the suits were done watching, nobody would go anywhere.

None of the rules had changed for them, but Greason had given Dan much better assignments, and the slashies in the corner were now usually ignored. The rest were scared. The clock was ticking and soon would reach midnight.

She was on her third day of clerking, and it was late in the day. Her bosses had begun the days report, leaving her alone in the room, when three men entered, two slashies, and one a suit. He was to pick up a delivery and they'd haul it. One followed him back to push it out, leaving her and the slashie alone.

He didn't look at her. Dirty and wet, he was trying not to. But she had to record the recipients of anything which left, including the slashies. "Excuse me, I need your number for the paperwork," she said. It was supposed to be crisp and official, but she couldn't quite manage.

He said nothing, just walked forward and held out his hand. He wasn't just a slashie now, but one on discipline. She recorded the number, hoping they'd finish soon. But he moved back a little, still not looking up. "It's going to take a little while. It's a big container. I'm not allowed past the door."

She hadn't though about him for a while, especially since she and Dan were no longer divided by a blanket. When Dan held her, she understood the difference between playing at companionship and really sharing it. But the book with the drawings had not been opened, afraid of losing them.

"Are they?" she whispered.

"They're good. Wife's pregnant. Everyone who came from Devon got slashed. Every single one. They do that here."

Slashing wasn't exactly equal, she thought, looking at him. He was limping slightly, and she wondered if the ones who had seemed to make it had to be taught a harder lesson.

He was getting more nervous, listening for sounds of anyone approaching. "We're still here," she whispered.

Hesitating, he looked up at her. She barely recognized him, especially the anger in his eyes. But his voice was low now but not a whisper. "Look, be careful. They know Trade runs through the sarki barns. They'll check those reports you do carefully. Try to match them if you can. But it won't be long. Three is one they're watching real close."

He faded back into himself as she busied herself with her summary, concentrating on the numbers, making sure they were right, but thought back to the office, to the silvers and then the greys. And how they all lost. But she couldn't concentrate with him in the room.

The rumbling sound of the cart finally came near, and she had copied half of them. The door was opened by the suit, the slashie waiting for it to be fully open before pushing the bulky container out, and he was waiting to steady it. They'd both be punished if it slipped. As the door closed, she asked her boss if there would be anymore today.

He looked over her list. "No, they've closed everything down for a delivery so we'll be busy tomorrow." He walked out into the lobby and locked he door, coming back in and locking the entry door as well. "We need to make sure we didn't forget anything. Bring that and your list," he said, pointing at her tally sheet, and she followed. But then, she already understood that Trade did not respect caste, not in its profits, and not in its blame either, as the echos of the nightmare drew closer once again.

o0o

Jadzia pealed off her shoes, covered in mud and soaked through. She had been called to see the Vorta again. He'd asked an odd assortment of questions. Everything had been in order so far. He had surprised her by allowing two of her people one trip to the store rooms for dried food to add to their soup the next day. She'd smiled and thanked him.

But she wondered why he was being so cooperative. Something must be wrong. He'd offered more nectar, this time without having Thompson drag it in.

She'd sipped it slowly, a little guilty about enjoying it. A few rooms away Thompson and his fellow prisoners were being half-starved and she had sweet juice to drink.

But the Vorta was preoccupied. He had problems of his own. There was no hint of trouble up the hill. Every person who went to the hospital had a flood of questions to answer, and none had noticed anything unusual.

He'd gone out of his way to charm her, though Weyoun had put on a better act. This Vorta wasn't used to having to persuade lesser beings that he cared.

But she understood that she mattered to him. Perhaps it was the way she cooperated without resentment. Did he take that as a sign she was crossing the line, that she'd work with them willingly? Or did he see, in her lack of fear, a recognition of their authority and power?

She was doing their bidding, but because she understood that it was necessary. And if she didn't know that her life would soon be done, would she be so calm about the compromise he was expecting?

She didn't know the answer. But she'd been able to get permission for extra food. He'd allowed more of the moss to be gathered. The guards stood further back from the blue line, not so close they could step across without warning.

She couldn't stop the mud which flowed over the upper deck, washing down to the lower one with heavy rains. She couldn't keep the ditch from overflowing with muck from the spring melt in the mountains. She couldn't do anything to have the water in the channel cleaned up, making it unusable for food or drink.

But the next time she crossed the slippery pathway over the bridge she hoped to get help with the rock. Things had gone wrong for the Vorta. He'd mentioned a new organization that would run things instead of Jem'Hadar. He wanted to show off his candidate and was willing to deal if she'd cooperate. She would smile and ask pleasant questions without making any promises, and then mention that the mud was getting out of hand and she was hoping for help in removing the rock.

It still rained daily. The mud oozed across the deck and onto the pathways, and was tracked everywhere. People collected rain water for washing, or simply hung clothes for the rain to rinse. But they didn't have the energy for much else. Even with half-rations, they were still showing symptoms of malnutrition.

She knew the rations wouldn't be raised. But cooked into a thickened soup, the dried food and moss would make meals more filling. For the sick, able to eat less, it was more nutrition than simple broth.

That was necessary. Already, most of the children were sick. Most were minor ailments, especially colds, but everyone was afraid of another epidemic when they were too weak to fight it off. The moss made the broth thick and added taste, but most of all it was very nutritious.

As the mud dried there would be much more moss to gather. They all knew the skies would clear and they would once more have the deck to use, but only when the moss had finished its cycle and been saved.

She would explain. There would be no threats but the rule would be firm. There was little to do, and with the rain there was even less. When the deck was there to take the children to play and to sit in conversation with friends it would be easier.

But time was running out. Each day she woke, she knew Worf was drawing closer. Once, Worf so near she could nearly feel his touch, she had almost fallen. But it was a warning and she'd caught herself before it was too late.

For a long time, she'd hoped death would claim her and end the suspense. But she took her inspiration from those around her now. A line of blue surrounded them, and one step across it would mean the end, but none had given up. They could celebrate a child's birthday and take real joy from it. Up the hill, the medical staff fought for life despite hunger and exhaustion. She didn't see those in the little rooms or taken away, but could believe that even they clung to life, no matter how bad their existence had become.

Worf could wait. When death's release came, she would not regret it. But she would savor the moments that made each day worth holding precious until then.

o0o

On one side of his cell, in a corner, the floor dipped down to a drain. It was useful but the odor which hung around it was too strong. Bashir curled against the opposite wall most of the time, near the slot where the rations dropped and the water dripped down to a depression in the floor before it ran like a rivulet to the outside drain.

He drank when he needed to. There was always water. Mostly he slept. People and places from his life filled his dreams. Sometimes he even could tell they weren't real.

For he had a measure of reality. Rations came when they came, but he hadn't lost count of how many had been.

Seven meals had passed since they had taken him to the room. In his more lucid moments he knew it had been longer than that. But he took his cake and dropped it in the puddle of water next to the drip to soften it. They he'd pull chunks away as it broke up.

It took time to eat it that way. He had to find real ways to fill all the emptiness.

There was a small, uneven ledge near his sleeping area. After each ration cube had come and been eaten, he dropped a pebble on the ledge. Even if he lost track of the count in his mind, he could count the pebbles.

It didn't matter how long it was between feedings. That he could tell how many was a firm tie with reality to which he desperately clung.

After all the food was gone, he curled back to sleep. Sometimes he just daydreamed in such a vivid reality he was surprised when his body's need interrupted his mind play.

In his reality, the only refuge he had anymore were dreams.

He hated his captors. He'd feared them for a long time, since they'd taken him and put a Founder in his place. But even then it wasn't so personal. They were fighting a war that hadn't yet become visible. And he'd gotten home.

Even the last miserable year the enemy in the sky had been a distant presence.

But Glebaroun and his special meal had changed all that. He could live with being hungry, and hurting and alone. But the Vorta had stolen something important from him. He'd kept the dinner to himself, even on the station. It was special.

Glebaroun had tainted the memory. For that he could never be forgiven. The Founders might run the Dominion. Their scaly soldiers might enforce the rules with fists and guns. But for him, the enemy was exemplified by this single Vorta.

He would destroy him. He didn't know how, or when, but he knew somehow he had to survive this so he could extract his revenge.

He'd never go back home. He knew that. But before he died, the Vorta would know why he had to die. Sometimes he wondered if Vorta clung to life or cared little as there would just be a new clone. But the seeming desperation of this one suggested he wanted to live. Somehow it would make his death far more of a satisfaction and Julian vowed he would live too, so he could know it.

He was dreaming. His finger pointed at the thing in the center of the circle. This time the Vorta stepped back, afraid. He saw the power in the eyes of his accuser. "You're it." The monster fell nearly splitting apart in his agony as he died.

Each reputation he died a little quicker and with more pain. Each time the dust had been ground to power and mingled with the ground Bashir knew that somehow the last death would be real. He slept in peace for a little while, knowing he was the one who would live.

o0o

Andy Tabler, hungry and tired, watched the gloom of his shadowy cage as he pulled his daily ration to the back, where he could see the door but have a warning of what they wanted. Everything was so silent now. Once a day they opened the door and put his days water and one cake just inside. He must remain absolutely still and look at the floor. He must show himself, pulling back the blanket. They knocked as a warning so the miserable survivors could crawl out of their cocoons in time. Leaving the blanket, he'd waited until the sound of the feeding were past, and crawled forward, taking it back to his place. Draping himself in his blanket, he would drop the cake in the water. Sipping it, he'd set it aside and sleep. But if it was a meager existence, it was better than what had been before.

He'd never touched any contraband. He'd even supported and helped Mr. Tarlan when he tried to find it before they all destroyed themselves. Perhaps they'd noticed, since he was only forced to watch when the others were tortured. They'd strapped his feet once, but only once, and never asked any questions, but then he knew how painful the straps were when the ones Mr. Tarlan had suspected were questioned. They'd scream an inarticulate primeval howl of pain, and when they'd asked him what the difference between those who had been catered to in Ag's winter duties, and those working the snow, he'd told them. All he could say was they were suspected, he didn't know anything, but then they'd put him in this cell and given him a blanket. And silence, but in his dreams the screams went on, but distantly away.

He shouldn't have been 'ag', not having been much involved in it before, but he'd worked in the hydroponics area on one assignment, and was reasonable familiar with the terms. When Tarlan had been put in charge, he'd been put there to revise reports as Tarlan's written command of standard was questionable.

He was alone. Knowing that Ag, and anyone associated with it, would feel the full weight of the hammer when it fell, he'd stayed alone.

Waking from a nap, he sampled his water. The taste of the cake had infused it, but not strong enough to eat yet. He could tell with the taste when the gummy cake would be softened enough his sore gums could stand it. He was grateful for the darkness and the loose, now filthy clothes, so he didn't have to see his body shrinking. At first, he'd been so hungry. All the rest faded before the desperation for food. But it was different now. He ate the cubes since they were there, but he wasn't hungry. He put it in the water so he'd have to eat it. The Vorta and his Jem'Hadar were going to allow him to live. He could tell. So he'd eat. If he thought they would shoot him, he'd leave the cakes by the door and just drink. He could now, the hunger gone. It made his teeth hurt with the chewing and he could keep that away.

But he was going to live. He'd known it when the Vorta had asked. Nothing he said was a secret. Tarlan had probably told them by then anyway. And he wanted to live for a reason.

He hadn't been on the station long, on loan to a team of Bajorans working on a survey of their food distribution problem. The places where it came from did well. The ones where it was needed did much less so, and it had been suggested that one neutral entity redistribute the supply. It would have been Starfleet, or civilian suits provided by the Federation. There would have been nothing 'neutral' if it was anyone from Bajor.

That was what the Vorta was going to make of them, he knew. They were interested in the plants. If they became a village, they would be among the lucky ones, not the ones who were hungry.

But he'd learned something from his last assignment. The Bajorans were proud, especially of their own labor. They didn't live on Bajor so much as their little village or valley. They were happy to trade what they didn't need for themselves, but would have fought a bitter war if someone had insisted on taking it all.

As the Vorta had tormented those who'd broken his rules, Andy had walled himself off. They *all* knew the rules. His shared dwelling had been searched when his roommates were gone, he being careful they knew, just in case they had the wrong idea. It was not that resisting was wrong, but useless resistance was. He'd learned that from his last assignment. The test had gone well, the local farmers cooperating perfectly, all the way up to the end when the food was to be picked up. Somehow, enough for themselves had simply disappeared. No one seemed to know where it went. He hadn't understood then, not entirely, but honored them now.

Perhaps if the guilty had dug a pit and buried their booty for ten years, when the Vorta would have lost interest, but to challenge him at everyone's cost was no better than those who burned the Bajoran fields so the Cardassians could not take it, but weren't there to pay the price.

He would pay Them back, but not yet. He had to live to do that. Sitting in his darkness, sipping his flavored water he thought of that moment, and that then, he might die. But it would be a death worth dying.

The cake would take some time, and he couldn't say awake long between his naps. But he imagined the moment of his triumph, when they knew he'd been fooling them all along, and how they'd have to wonder who was next and for once there was pleasant silence in his dreams.

o0o

Walter Vance had come to collapsed on the floor, everything hazy. Since then, every moment was a combination of pain and confusion. He'd pass out and dream, and then have to wake to the numbing reality.

Lifting his head was agony, but he'd fallen with his body twisted and sprawled. Somehow, after an eternity, he'd managed to slowly drag himself into a less painful position.

He couldn't see clearly. The light in the cell blurred into a fog. But moving had taken all the energy he had, and for a time afterwards he couldn't move at all.

Time meant nothing. Food came, but he slept so much he didn't know when. He didn't have the energy to drag himself to the door anyway. He rolled to his side, lying on the least bruised places, and slept.

Time passed in undefined flashes of memories, dreams, and nightmares. He stood by the newly cut tiers with Justin, pride and expectation competing for his time. He looked into the future and wanted to hold that moment for ever.

The day the colony had been established was very vivid. Stepping off the shuttle the day they'd arrived, looking over the expanse of grey and the scraggly plants, he'd seen it transformed to the bright greens and browns of his homeland.

And sometimes, he and Ray and Tara sat in the sunshine, remembering memories of places many there couldn't have imagined. He liked those moments best of all.

He wasn't from Earth. He'd been born in a little colony which was now on the other side of the Line. Cyrus Vance had been a renowned botanist, but was especially a man with a mission. The hearty seed he developed had bought life for a lot of little desperate hungry places. He had taught his children how to dream as well. Lying on the hard floor of his cell, having reclaimed himself, Walter was grateful for all the cruelty and hunger and devastation because he'd grown up among, working along side the children who did not have a safe, soft place to go home to when his father was done. He would not forget them, nor allow his own misery to steal his soul ever again.

As his mind cleared and he could lie awake, he'd thought a lot about his father. Mother had left him when Walter was sixteen, wanting more than a series of rough camps in-between stop offs in civilization. His sister had married and gone to live on Earth. His older brother had died with his father, massacred along with the village they were living with. Walter had almost gone with them. But he had a dream of something better. When he met Justin, both studying soil chemistry, the path of his life had been set.

The project, even the early research, was Walter's idea. But Justin and his brilliant mind had made it real and taken it places Walter could only dream of. It was such a pity that their tormentors had made a mockery of it, especially when they were so close to recognition.

Would they have allowed it? When they asked him the questions, if he could have answered them, would he have been willing if it kept something of his dream alive, knowing they already owned him?

Was it better that it exist in their hands, or should he have never had that dream of it at all?

But now his head hurt too much to think. He'd started to drag himself across the room for his rations again. They'd stolen his dream, and yet he would not let Them win.

There wasn't much to live for anymore, but he'd eat and rest and survive anyway.

He could move a little easier. The pounding in his head was more a persistent throb now. The bruises still hurt, but the pain was dulled. Eventually, unless they executed him, he'd recover on his own.

But there was a lump on his neck. Swollen and hard, he couldn't turn his head without stabbing pain. Somehow he'd slept for a while, but when he woke it was to extreme fatigue. He tried to remember the day Justin had come up with the first working formula, but it was all a jumble in his head.

Despite the hunger, when the bowl was shoved inside it took him a lot of time to go to it. It was exhausting to pull himself to his knees and drag himself across the small cell. He collapsed on the floor next to the bowl, too tired to try to lift it.

He slept for awhile, but woke just as exhausted. But he was hungry and ate the meager meal. Then he drank the water and rested awhile.

Everything was hazy when he woke. He wanted water, but almost spilled it when he tried to pour it into the bowl.

Half a sip later, the bowl fell. The pressure tearing against his neck suddenly ceased and he took a long gasping breath. Every muscle went flaccid as the heart stopped, the swollen artery in his neck purpled and soft after it burst.

Walter crumpled like a rag doll. There would be no more dreams or temptations. He had answered-or refused-his last question. Walter Vance had reached the end of his rebellion, and now only Tarlan remained to keep the Project from fading away.

o0o

Jadzia was preoccupied. The Vorta had been very careful to mention how well she'd been doing, and she'd taken the time to thank him in everyone's name for allowing the vegetables and spices to be collected. He'd authorized a second trip, and even allowed enough for the month to be taken this time.

Something must be wrong. He wasn't as good as Weyoun at faking charm. She could see past his act and could read the worry in his violet eyes.

He was scared. Somehow he'd slipped up and was looking for ways to recover. Finding someone who was calm and cooperative and who gave every impression of being willing to go along with his plans must have made him feel a lot better.

She intended to get everything she could out of his problem. She knew she wouldn't be around long enough to have to live up to her impression. But Worf had been very distant of late. Now and then she worried that perhaps her vision hadn't been quite complete, and someday she'd either have to live up to the hints she gave the Vorta or face his payback if she didn't.

But that would be later. For now, she had helped feed them better. The guards didn't stare anymore. There were hints that there might be an additional tap of water for the more remote parts of the little captive village.

And there was the rock. The rain never really ended, just cleared for an afternoon before it poured again. It had warmed up enough the snow pack in the mountains was melting, and it only added to the mud.

The upper deck was inundated. The sandbags had helped, but one end of the lower deck was still running with wet muck. She was ready to ask about the rock. She had all the questions planned. She'd ask him about this new civil authority and just what sort of position it would be. He'd be relieved and *then* she'd ask about removing the rock.

Worf and the darkness was not even on her mind. As she carefully navigated the slippery deck, she considered the words to use to hint without making it impossible to back out should her vision of death be incorrect.

She didn't want to end up branded a traitor. She was thinking of that when she avoided a deep puddle by moving to a dryer side of the edge near the ditch.

She started to back away, moving towards the puddle, when her foot slipped. But it was too late. Even the Jem'Hadar tried to grab her, but she'd already lost her balance.

She fell straight down into the muddy channel. It came as such a complete surprise that she didn't even have the chance to react.

She landed face down. The bottom had been hacked out of rock, and there were sharp spikes in the mud. She hit hard. It jarred her whole body. The mud flowed over her, forcing her against the jagged rock.

She could feel Dax convulse inside her, and the cracked ribs and broken bones were strange, numb places that she could not define.

Worf was hovering near. He wasn't close enough to take her, but tangled in the mud and blood, she could smell his scent.

Her vision hadn't been wrong. She'd never have a chance to ask about the rock. Someone else would have to worry about that life.

For a moment, trapped in the mud, she feared she would drown. The water was almost at her face, and she couldn't move to get away from it.

She knew she would die, but didn't want to suffocate.

She was angry at the gods who decided about death. She wasn't ready for it now. The careful cat and mouse game with the Vorta was her way of making up for the secrets. She could get more from Them than someone else. She belonged now.

It was so cold. She shivered in the mud and weakness that took over control of her body.

Then there were voices. They were trying to reach her. Ropes were lowered. Carl's voice, stunned and full of fear, said he wanted to go after her.

Then the Jem'Hadar spoke. "The Vorta will have her transported."

She didn't know how much she'd meant to him, but as the first strands of the transport beam tugged at her body, she realized with a special clarity that it had not been a game to him. He believed he owned her. Perhaps he would save her if he could.

Before, death had been a welcome escape. But now she had other things to live for, and she knew she did not want life to fade. But the game had been very real. Slowly, she was being drawn inside the web.

If he saved her he'd own her just as he owned Thompson and how many others? Dax was weakening, but she clung to the cynical wisdom of Curzon that had guided her through the hardest times.

What if Dax was to die? She would die too, but what if the Vorta managed somehow to save her? Would Jadzia alone have the strength to resist the lure of temptation? She could help them, but only at the cost of herself. Was she willing to pay that high a price without Curzon to tell her it was all she could do?

He was distant now, drifting away. She was cold and tired and almost wished that the mud would swallow her and it be done.

And Worf waited. She could feel him near. She understood now. Since she had played the Vorta's game, Worf had retreated. He would not welcome a traitor.

Then she could feel the mud disappear. A cold, hard table was beneath her, and the chattering of some alien creatures all around. She kept her eyes shut. In her mind, she sat between the Klingon she loved and the old withered man she had been in a basic waiting room.

Curzon smiled. 'He's trying to save you. We must go, too weak, but he might keep you alive. Remember what has been shared."

But Curzon was distant and hazy. Since she was joined, he'd been a part of her, an intangible merging of the self called Jadzia. But now he stood apart, a small but tangible barrier between them.

Dax was dying. She'd landed on the rough rock directly where her symbion was placed, and besides the damage to herself, Dax had been morally wounded.

She could feel things touching her on the metal table. The shock was wearing off and the pain growing worse. Dax writhed inside her.

Curzon looked so pale she could almost see through him. He was resigned. Jointed trills did not survive the loss of the symbion, but she wondered if the Vorta had some special medicine that would change that.

She didn't know if she liked the idea or not. Already, she was more alone than she'd been since the joining, except for the short time Dax had been taken from her years before. She'd never forgotten how lonesome it had been. Now, Dax still connected but the touch fading, she remembered the loneliness and emptiness and fear.

Julian had held her hand that time. But he was gone now. She didn't want to die in this cold empty place with only the bird creatures surrounding her.

Then the pain stopped. All the touching ended. Curzon was translucent, but Worf was solid and close, taking her hand.

She couldn't hold his. She was too weak. But he smiled. "I will never leave you," he said.

The pull of a transporter tugged at her again, and Curzon faded. Worf was true to his word and was still holding her hand when she felt the lumpy stretcher underneath her, and a brief look proved she was in the courtyard by the hospital.

She closed her eyes. Glebaroun must have discovered she couldn't be saved. He'd given her one last gift when his twittering doctors had at least spared her the agony.

Worf walked next to her as she was taken inside. She hardly noticed the stench. She'd already anticipated it.

She was moved into a room, and lifted to a bed. She recognized Lonnie Broadman's voice giving the orders. With Willman and Bashir gone, she'd become very strong and careful.

As she let Worf come nearer, Jadzia let her mind wander. Not all of those taken would die or disappear, though they'd come back damaged. She would sleep now, but perhaps before the end she could say goodbye.

The pain had been banished. She knew she was bleeding, but Dax was calm now. Her part in this nightmare was almost done. Letting go of the games and fear, she lay in Worf's arms not quite touching and dreamed of the moment the final barrier between life and death would disappear and they would be one.

o0o

Miles was sleeping when a loud banging woke him. Confused and nervous, he was certain they were going to commit some new outrage. He sat up, resigned at his fate. He had on only his shirt and pants, his shoes lying next to him and his jacket crumpled under his head as a pillow.

When the door was yanked open the bright daylight streamed into the small cell. He looked away, having been kept in near darkness for so long he couldn't see in the bright light. But the Jem'Hadar didn't push inside. "Get dressed. Gather your things. You will be brought."

Still mostly stunned, he was grateful for the sudden darkness when the door was shut. Since he'd been returned to the surface after the nightmare of being questioned on the ship, he'd been held in solitary in that room. Once a day, at dusk, the door was opened and he stood outside in the fading light to get his rations. The only exception to that had been the hard day they'd been called out to watch James limp body hauled away after they'd shot him.

He hadn't been there long when that day came. On the ship he'd been tortured and questioned and starved. The little room where nobody bothered him was welcome in comparison.

What were they going to do now, he wondered. Was he to be deported? Would he end up lost on a wreak of a planet where Cyrus would be held up as luxury?

He'd worked so closely with Sisko, and destroyed the cave. He'd even confessed to that. The best guess he could make was he would die like James that day.

He'd dreamed of seeing his wife and children. It had been too impossible a dream. But now, if they deported him, would they allow them to be together or would he just be grateful to live in time where he wasn't a stranger?

Sometimes he talked to E'Char, telling him about his days. It didn't matter that he wasn't real. He hadn't been real in the simulation he'd been forced to endure so long before either, but he'd almost shot himself over the confusion after it was done. Sure that the Vorta had the technology to repeat it, he would never know if the ordeal was 'real' or not anymore.

Then, Julian had saved him. Sitting alone in the dark, Miles often wondered what had become of his friend. He understood the fears Julian had only barely managed too well now.

There were the small parts hidden in the warehouse. He was certain that they'd find them and somehow blame him. He still didn't want to die, especially the way they'd promised him he'd die on the ship if he declined to answer their questions. He still remembered how Muniz had died, shot with a Dominion weapon on the ship, and trapped without medicine inside while the siege wore on outside. He'd had a horrible death.

They shot people and left them to bleed to death. But then, for some who'd never be released and never have enough to eat, dying fast with the blood was easier than slowly wasting away.

At least, that way it was over.

But sitting on his lumpy cot, his few things filed in his coat pockets, he was completely confused. Why have him dress and pack if all they were doing was shooting him? Was it to give him one last banished moment of hope?

Unless he was sent to whatever place they'd put Keiko and the children, he'd rather that than be deported. But he'd sit in the dark cell alone and untouched over the rest.

Nobody knew what happened to the rest unless they were "allowed" to watch a beating or an execution. It was part of the torment. Next door, your best friend could be waiting to be dragged away to live through the nightmare again. Or perhaps they might be telling the Vorta anything to spare further torment.

He stopped guessing and waited. When they came back he'd have to deal with the bright light, too. That was the only saving grace if they shot him. His executioner would be too hard to separate from the fuzziness.

They were taking their time. He listened to the breeze outside. The sun would be bright. How could it be so dark inside when the warmth could be felt through the shut door?

James was dead, but had he told them about the spare parts? Had it been too long for them to wait to question him about that?

E'Char was sitting near. He watched the door as well. "You will not be alone," he said.

Miles closed his eyes, and he was sitting with E'Char on the floor, the sand loose and even. He held out his hands, and E'Char did as well.

They painted in the sand. The pictures formed slowly, and Miles pushed away the fear.

E'Char looked up, a small smile in his eyes. "You shall not ever be alone."

Miles paused, smoothing a rise of sand. He'd killed E'Char. He still didn't understand why the man had forgiven him, but didn't ask anymore.

Without his friend, he would have found a way to finish what Julian had stopped that day he'd taken the phaser.

o0o

Keiko was grateful, this time, to step back through the gate of their prison, for she had not known if she was going to that day. The work wasn't overly hard, but the day had ended too soon, and all had been ordered to sit, including the slashies who now supervised their work. The shipment of the day's supplies was short. Everyone knew of the Trade and that it was possible none of them would go home that day.

But they'd taken some of the slashies first, and then returned them. They'd left the civilians alone. It could mean they'd be given over to someone else, so there was no relief in it, but finally, late they and the slashies had been loaded into the same transport and it began moving down the soggy road.

It wasn't until they reached the end and were allowed out of the pitch dark box they knew they were home. Even the slashies looked relieved. One said before they left that whoever had packed the shipment was going to be torn apart. But then, better them than us.

It was odd hearing themselves in the same group as their new guards, thought they were also watched. She passed through the gate, the sky dark and the wind blowing, to be sent inside for dinner, which all had missed. Tension and worry had give way to relief, and as the two groups got their bowls and sat, eager to eat so they could show family they were still alive. Then Te'Salle, the wife of the Vulcan who had briefly led the Counsel, sat near her.

One of the slashies stationed in the camp looked at her and her nod was imperceptible. He sat where he could watch them, and yet appeared to be absently mindedly eating his late dinner.

Te'Salle spoke very softly, her taciturn manner and calm voice betrayed by the energy radiated by her look. "Marka is doing well. I though you should know. I was told if she requires a doctor, one will be sent. But I don't think the need will arise."

"I'm relieved, but what about tomorrow?"

"You shall work but here. They will find something easy for you to do until she is well."

It wasn't how things were done. It didn't fit. "I won't complain," she said cautiously.

"Do you know," said the Vulcan, speaking slowly and with expression now, "Do you know that these new people, the ones in fancy grey and black, that have done the transfers to other camps, do you know that almost everyone left of us has a connection to someone out there who is of interest to them?"

Keiko didn't. But she thought of Miles. "I don't know if my husband is even alive," she said quietly, between bites.

"Ah, but he is. You should take care with the slashies, but not disregard them. They hear things. They are not our enemy. Your husband is alive and if Marka who is a widow is to see a doctor I'm quite sure her luck comes from being of your household. That is how they are doing it, by household. For bad or ill."

Keiko was having trouble with dinner, no matter how hungry she was. If he was alive and of so much interest, he would have to be wearing one of their suits. She despised these new creatures, especially as so many being of her species, as much as the ones they'd replaced. She did not wish to think of her husband as one. "And you're sure of this?"

"Yes." She ate a few more bites, trying to decide how to feel, since Te'Salle's contacts were good, and probably right.

"That's not why we came home today," she said, wishing to avoid further mention in such a public place.

"No, since the slashies returned with you it was a distraction. Those who packed it will be looked for but while they are doing that the real theft will occur. But they won't catch them because by the time they look it and them will scatter."

Keiko decided it was best not to ask any more questions, especially how Te'Salle knew these things, but as dinner ended and they walked back to the housing area, the slashie was still behind them, and she hoped Te'Salle's trust was warranted. He passed them and she felt him slip something into her pocket.

Parting company with the slashie, Te'Salle followed her back inside. "I'm supposed to check on Marka. I'll bring the children back in the morning if you'd rather."

She didn't like the idea, but if Marka needed the sleep, perhaps. But the older woman looked her over. "Burn it after you read it. My husband is not important, but our son is, quite a well known chemist. I know he's working with this new element. When he is settled on his own new home, we'll be joining him. So will you on the dirt colony your husband was resettled on. That is what it is, an old human term. Forced resettlement. But while many of our own believe these new ones in black and grey are more acceptable and safer than the aliens, they are wrong. The others did not understand soon enough. They will pay the price. You do not have to be an altered form to be ruthless."

Keiko waited while she checked on Marka, still with a low fever. She would see a doctor tomorrow. Te'Salle would stay with her that night, so Keiko could stay with the children.

But she had to get some of her things. There was just enough time to read the letter. She folded it small, intending to dispose of it along with way, but Te'Salle took it. "Please heed his warning. I like your children. Without you, there would be less safety for them."

Scared and worried, Keiko just followed her to the small quarters where Te'Salle lived, and hurried to her children, wishing she could still take comfort in the resignation of ignorance, since it was so much easier than the fear that came from knowledge.

o0o

Lonnie stared at the tricorder, the one that Willy had gotten permission to keep. Jadzia was unconscious now. She didn't even move. Since she'd been transported to the square before the hospital, she hadn't made a single sound.

Jadzia Dax had been moved to the examination area, the wet clothes cut from her body. The injuries that were visible weren't bad. Oddly, she appeared to have broken ribs, but the tricorder showed them to be healed. But inside she was bleeding.

A long time ago, Lonnie had read about Trill biology. And in the last months, she'd been taught a little more. The Dax symbion was badly damaged. She knew hosts did not survive the loss of the symbion and could do nothing for it. This had been an accident, but like James, deliberately killed, only surgery beyond her skills and supplies could stop the bleeding. Host and symbodiant would both die. It would be another death marathon she must endure.

She was sure because the Vorta had tried to save her, but his doctors must have discovered the same deadly injury she had. Dax was too badly injured to live. Death was inevitable. He'd sent her back with broken bones repaired to spare her the pain, allowed to waste away with her own.

So she had been dressed in a gown and moved to the death room. A few of the staff knew her and had kept her company, but Lonnie stayed as much as she could manage too.

The people in Residential revered her. What would happen now? She might still wake. The dying were always offered a chance to say good bye.

But she thought of those who should have been there to try more than she knew.

Julian was her friend. He'd hidden the device and doomed himself. But he'd doomed her too, and so many others. If he'd put it in the box, Willman would have punished him, but he'd have been there to try. He would have tried anyway.

Now he'd never have the chance to save any of them. For him, all but perhaps his own death was over. They'd kill or deport him. If he died, she hoped it was quick, but feared it had not been.

Those left behind got the care she could give. She eased pain as she could afford to. She treated what she could. The dying received as much dignity as time could afford. But that was all.

Needing to let something out, she wanted to ask how many had died because he'd been so careless. She wanted to shout it. But then, in the rare moments she allowed herself to think back, she missed him. Still, he owed them all. Of all of them he should have known.

It was as if death was looming all around her, and she could not run. Willman knew he was doomed. Those in charge, especially those who'd known about contraband, would pay for their mistakes. But in the month since martial law had been declared there had been a steady increase in infections. Most were from Residential, the result of accidents and bad sanitation. Five more had finished out the monthly total, days before, none of them badly hurt if their wounds could have been properly treated. But that required minor surgery she was not trained for. Maybe there wouldn't have been the supplies for most, but this would have been simple. How many more would there be? The dark vision on that hill when her patient had touched her hand had come true. Now it trapped her, and she understood how he'd never really left that internment camp.

She focused the anger for a moment, then let it go. The truth was he couldn't save Dax. If they'd healed the broken ribs the Vorta's doctors would have saved her if they could. Two were dying. Jadzia was slowly bleeding to death and if she escaped infection would die from it. The worm inside her was weakening fast. He'd said, once, that Dax would always go on. Now it wouldn't. All those lifetimes would be lost, too.

But so much else was already gone. Across the line, had the Federation forgotten about them? Were they dismissed as dead? Did anyone care anymore?

But her patient was stirring a little, and she did a quick scan. She would wake up in a few hours. Lonnie had things to do, but would make sure they were done before that.

That time before, which now felt as if it was a long time ago, Dax had looked so ill and shaken that Lonnie was worried about her. But in that short moment before she'd gone, she had seen something dark and terrifying. No matter how much she must have missed her friend, she had never come again. Until now.

Lonnie had seen the haunting look in her eyes that day. Had she known she would die here? That momentary touch and the dark place Lonnie had seen, that was their home, but not the same, had that been now or a time to come?

Lonnie tried to save those she could. She gave the dying as much dignity as could be spared. But since that day, she had understood. Her nurse attended the dying in the last moments, and still performed her ceremony.

She didn't know if they flew free. But she would make sure their nurse was there at the last moments, perhaps for both of the beings that made up her patient. She wasn't a believer, but if the ceremony did set them free, it was worth the chance. Perhaps death was the only way they would ever find freedom in this desolate world and the ones she lost were really the lucky.

o0o

Miles was concentrating on his sand waves when the door was shoved open. The sand faded and E'Char stood.

"I will follow," said his ghostly companion.

Miles stood, moving hesitantly towards the blinding light. He tried to keep moving despite the pain. He didn't want them to think he was resisting.

He still wanted to live.

Waiting outside, he offered his wrists. But his hands weren't bound. E'Char was ahead of him now, Miles lost in the bright painful glow of the sun. "I will lead. Follow my voice."

He closed his eyes and followed E'Char's directions.

He knew where they'd turn to be taken to the ships. They'd pass the square and turn to the small field where the ship would wait.

But E'Char didn't tell him to turn. He stumbled forward, heading towards Residential. He opened his eyes, hoping to see where he was going.

Why this way? He dared not believe he was being released, but could not think of how close the warehouse was to the path. Would they lead him to the door and make him show them where the things were hidden? Would they push him inside and trap him there to die?

There were a few shadows. He could make out the boots of his guards now and then. He was being led along the pathway around the offices, deserted and out of bounds since the Jem'Hadar had come.

He could feel the mud sloshing in his boots. The hazy glare of water obscured the path to the bridge, and he guessed they were bypassing the flooded area.

Had that rock he'd seeded with Tarlan's mix been converted yet? If they lived long enough might it still spare them the mud the coming spring?

He'd liked listening to the rain. He and E'Char sat and enjoyed it as if it were music. But he guessed for those outside, with the mud and flooding, it wasn't as welcome.

They stopped. E'Char stepped over a row of blue posts and he followed. There was a large gate by the bridge, patrolled by many Jem'Hadar.

The First stood beside him. E'Char backed away.

He could see the fuzzy line of blue posts and the First was pointing at them.

"That is the blue line. You are permitted free movement up to that line, but must not cross it. Those who cross it will be shot. Do you understand?"

Miles was stunned. He wasn't surprised by the line but why was he being told the rules?

He nodded, and muttered cautiously. "Ugh, yes. I understand."

They continued past the gate, into Residential. E'Char was close now. "I believe they are sending us here," he said.

Miles stumbled after his guards. Then they stopped next to one of the quarters built the previous summer.

"These are your new quarters. Your responsibilities will be explained to you later." The Jem'Hadar began to walk away.

Miles looked at the haze where the boots had gone, and E'Char moved closer. "We are saved," he said.

But Miles didn't move. He was sure it was some kind of trick. Then several of last years staff people came out the door.

Standing in the shade of the building, he could see them a little better. He couldn't miss the stricken looks on their faces. E'Char was right. They'd been saved. But for what?

"Could somebody tell me what's going on?" asked Miles.

o0o

Jadzia was suspended in a murky fog, the light slowly penetrating the mist. There was little pain, and she puzzled over that. Then she remembered the cold metal table and alien doctors twittering about her.

But she knew where she was now. She remembered the disorientation of that day, standing on the hill. The smell was awful, but she already knew it. The cot and the vague light was the same. Worf stood near, but not close. When her time came, he would be with her but she had a little more of life to pass through.

There was no fear. She'd known that moment for so long that now she welcomed its melding with reality. It became a comfort to know it was almost over. This was the moment of her vision.

As the mist thinned and brightened, she clung to its comfort. Even when she woke, opening her eyes to the somber room and the young woman sitting half-asleep next to her, she was peaceful.

She tried to lift her hand but did not quite have the strength. The rustle of the blankets woke Lonnie Broadman.

Jadzia knew she was dying. She'd known from the moment of first awareness. The pain was gone, but not the weakness, nor the cold. She could barely move at all. The little strength she did have was slowly fading.

Dax was quiet and distant. Her other selves were too far away. An immense loneliness stood waiting to take her when Dax passed beyond life.

But there was not much time. And there were a few duties to this world before she was gone.

Lonnie leaned down to hear the whisper. Jadzia's voice was faint but clear, and rather calm. "Dax is almost gone. Please do not leave me alone."

She wasn't afraid of dying. Without her symbion she wouldn't last long. But the emptiness of being alone, of having all the merged selves ripped away frightened her. Julian had been there before. He would return but was living in hell now. Lonnie Broadman was her only comfort.

Worf moved closer as she gasped with shock. Dax had suddenly vanished. There had been no warning, no movement or pain. There was just a sudden devastating emptiness.

Lonnie took a deep breath. She had the tricorder and ran it over Jadzia. "Your symbion is dead. I wish I could have done something."

Jadzia stared at the dismal room, all sense of comfort gone. Worf drew near but he couldn't hold her hand and she needed a personal touch at that moment. "Dax was hurt too much. And I'm bleeding inside. I can feel it, without the pain." She shivered. "It's so cold. I can't get warm."

"I have more heated blankets coming but its hard to warm them," said Lonnie in a gentle voice.

All the hardness was gone from her eyes. Jadzia wondered if she'd felt something that day as well. "Dax would die when I do. There is none to host. A human or Bajoran wouldn't survive the joining."

Lonnie squeezed her hand. "Rest. I'll make sure the blankets are on the way." Then she let go and Jadzia started to panic.

"Don't go," she whispered. Lonnie took her hand again and an odd serenity came to both. Jadzia could feel the exhaustion and numbness inside her companion. She had become what she had to, but would be marked by it forever.

Jadzia was exhausted. She could feel the life draining out of her body. But she wanted to say good bye to those who would miss her. "The others, letters . . . . " she said, her voice trailing off.

"I'll write them for you." Lonnie picked up a pad, pulling out a pen, and leaned close.

"Do you need something for pain?" she asked.

Jadzia shook her head and the dizziness nearly made her pass out. "No," came another whisper. "Letters."

Not letting go of her hand, Lonnie wrote her good byes. She could tell that Lonnie didn't believe they would ever be read, but she recorded them anyway.

She had said good bye. Worf was hovering closer but she was still lost in a vast empty place and was afraid.

o0o

Dax had lived here the day before. Jackson and Emery hadn't touched any of her things. They'd just closed the door of her room and Miles had collapsed in the large chair in her office.

"She was assigned here to handle supplies," said Jackson quietly, tears forming in his eyes. "We get more since there was nothing found in this section. And we get it by the month. This meeting was supposed to be about our next shipment, which is due tomorrow. And she was going to ask about the rock."

Miles wondered why she'd bother. It was out of bounds and he knew they'd shot people already as an example. But Jackson acted as if he expected it to be allowed. "As a reward," said Miles, softly, hoping for an explanation.

At least if they did find the parts the warehouse wasn't in this area.

"She made a big difference for everybody here, Sir. Not just keeping people calm, but . . . I can't explain it. She has been so reasonable, so cheerful, almost. The Vorta liked her. He had some kind of plans. If it had been an hour later . . . . " Jackson had tears running down his face.

Miles was still astonished that he'd been brought in to replace her. For all he'd known she was captive in one of the little boxes. She'd handled as much contraband as he had and knew all the secrets. He guessed she'd been chosen over him because of the cave.

But now, he had to fill her shoes. Jackson had hinted that the Vorta had some kind of special relationship with her. Miles had imagined he might get some sort of favors if he did a good job. He didn't think Jadzia would have done that, but then on the station he knew he would never have considered it himself.

But he did have a family, and they might still be alive.

But Jackson had brought him a bowl of soup. It had scraps of vegetable in it too, and was seasoned. He guessed she'd said all the right things for the Vorta to be so cooperative.

Maybe he hadn't known her as well as he thought.

E'Char watched him eat, his face enraptured. E'Char didn't eat, but shared Miles enjoyment. He sat on the edge of the couch next to Jackson. Miles tried to be careful not to look his way lest Jackson notice.

He'd been told about the hospital, and the conditions, and the shortages. He could only imagine how bad it was now, with everyone locked inside. But they had just said she'd fallen. They were talking like she was dead. "I'd guess she'll be sick for a while, but . . . . "

"If she was going to live, you wouldn't be here, Sir." It was Emery, pale and stunned, but calmer. "I saw it. She was walking along the rock path to that meeting. It was all wet and muddy but the other path was flooded. She just slipped, and fell down in the ditch. In the deep part, the part we did last year. There were so many rocks there. She was so still. She was half on her side and stomach, and I think her arm was broken. I don't think she was bleeding much, but she was so pale. They said she was bleeding inside. There is nothing that can be done without a surgeon."

Jackson stared at the floor. "He took her first. I think if he could have saved her he would have. She was letting him think she was going to join his new bunch of collaborators. I don't know if she would have if she hadn't fallen."

Miles was stunned, still unable to take in the idea that Jadzia was dying. She had been a rock of support so many times, even in her distant moods. She'd held Sisko together more than once, with her reasoned calm. They needed her. It seemed unfair that a fall because of rain could take her away.

He wondered if she would have been trapped in her game eventually. Would they have thought so much of her then?

How could he do it? E'Char would stay, but family was gone. Jadzia had kept him from giving up, and the hope of someday connecting with Julian had given him a reason to go on. Now she was dead and . . .

What had happened to Julian? Why had he taken so many chances?

Was he dead yet, or did he just wish he was?

Soon, he gathered, Jadzia would be dead. But what about Dax? Who would be joined with her symbion?

"What about Dax?" he asked. "They will need a new host." He had a crazy idea, born of loneliness and desperation.

"I heard both halves of her are dying," said Jackson very quietly. "Too much bleeding. Or direct injuries from the fall."

Miles sighed. It had been a stupid idea anyway. Humans couldn't host the slugs. It had almost killed Riker. He would have to do this somehow on his own.

But E'Char had stood and walked to the chair. He held out his hand. "Not alone," he said.

Miles looked away. He knew the others couldn't see E'Char. But they'd wonder if he'd been locked away too long if he appeared to be talking to nothing.

He'd have to be careful. E'Char smiled. "Never alone. But you don't have to speak."

Miles looked up, towards Emery but was looking at E'Char directly in back of him.

"You'll stay with me, all of you?" he asked.

Emery nodded. Jackson mumbled almost to himself, "not much choice." But E'Char just smiled, and Miles knew that no matter how hard it was, he'd have to go on.

And, if Dax could find a way to get them a few rewards, perhaps they would be willing to. look upon hm in the same light.

o0o

Jadzia floated in mist again. The light had been fading for a time, and she couldn't see anymore. The mist was so cold. Sounds were distant, too, and she could no longer tell what they were. The mist was soft and velvety, with the scent of spring. She could feel her body, so still and cold and pale. In her minds eye she could even see it. But it was as distant as the fog now. Lonnie sat by her, and another nurse, beginning a small ceremony.

She was drawn to the new nurse. Watching as a small candle was lit, there was light all around her. It was the brightness of an early morning when the world was new again. There was peace, too, and a soft quiet she hadn't known before.

Her body lay unmoving. Her eyes were closed, covered with a small cloth. The spots that decorated her face and neck were pale and faded.

Surprised, Jadzia realized that her body had ceased to live. Worf stood a distance away, but she could not come. She watched, her gaze fixed on the candle.

It had been dark before. She wished the light to stay. She wasn't cold now. The warmth of the morning sun shone on her face. The mist was softer now, not so close. It was drifting away in little puffs of clouds.

She wasn't alone. The nurse sprinkled her body with some scented ointment and the mist disappeared. But the other was still trapped. Curzon and her other selves, so recently stolen away, were close enough to touch, but still lost in the mist. It had trapped her before. She could go to Worf now, but not them. She was afraid of the mist. It might take her again and the candle and the ointment would not set her free.

But the nurse pulled up the gown that covered her. The candle was blown out, but lit again. Curzon and Emory and all the others, even the killer inside her, stood very near. Even Jadzia— an echo of Jadzia-stood with them.

Then the others came closer. The woman like her, the sister of spirit she had left behind, touched her and she was whole again.

Worf moved closer, but did not intrude. She looked down on the still, lifeless body that had been hers and watched. Lonnie covered her with a sheet. A stretcher was moved next to her body and the two women slid her still form off the cot.

But Jadzia and those who had been a part of her were free. Worf was close. Dax had loved him too.

She reached towards him, all of her. He took her hand and all she could see was the bright light of summer. Flowers bloomed in the grass and birds sang in the trees.

She and Worf were one. In life it had been denied, but both were past that meager measure now.

With joy, she embraced him. The sunny sky and gentle flowers grew vivid and alive, and she left behind all the time she'd wondered and waited and feared.

She was a part of eternity now. As Worf walked across the land, the flowers sprung up higher. The fruits grew fat and mature as she touched them.

But she didn't recognize many of them. Or perhaps she did. Blanchard had grown them in his lab.

She wasn't to pass the seasons on Cryus. But she belonged. The spring and the fall, the summers and winters, she would share the new bounty that would come, and the freedom that would emerge after they had passed through the darkness.

o0o

Mac still couldn't see very well, everything still blurry, and slept most of the time, but the complete exhaustion that had taken over his life was fading. He hadn't said much, nothing at all about the ordeal, but he would ask for soup and told Sarah he missed her every time she had to go home. They'd bathed him and he had clean clothes, and the bruises had faded enough it didn't hurt to lie on his side. Time still had no real meaning. He slept are woke and ate and slept again, especially since the doctor had said to feed him every two hours during the day. Now he was getting finely chopped bits of ration with the moss and broth and had started feeling full.

Michael came and sat with him, on feeding duty but encouraging small bits of conversation as

well. He'd been told about the blue line, and how they were getting half rations. Michael sounded happy about it and Mac didn't quite know why. Half was far better than he had gotten but he couldn't quite make any of it real.

And Michael was very quiet this morning. He was sure something was wrong, but Michael was trying to make things sound a little better than they were. Or maybe wishing so.

He'd finished what he could and the bowl was moved. Emery had dropped back into his chair as if it had been terrible. "I've got to get to work," he said. "Shandra will stay with you. You did good with the food."

Mac was fighting off sleep already. It had been a week but even his meals exhausted him to the point of napping now. It was good because he remembered bits and pieces and if he was awake would try to put them together. But he had to know. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"We're waiting for word," Michael said. "Someone was hurt."

Mac just sunk into his pillow, not wanting to know. "Up the hill?" he asked.

"Yeah, we get notes," said Emery.

Maybe he thought Mac knew how things were but none of it made any sense. Maybe they'd told him earlier and he forgot. But he was falling asleep, a few minutes later when he heard Shandra come in.

"Michael," she said softly. Mac could see him look up in his mind, waiting. "We heard. She's gone. Last night. She did the ceremony."

"Oh," said Michael, holding back. "A few minutes, tell Carl I'll be there."

Mac lay still, listening to the sound of her footsteps as she left.

Michael sounded as if he was far away when he spoke, just barely holding control because he had to. "Do you remember what I told you, I mean about how things are?"

"Just a little," whispered Mac.

"Well, we have the blue line, deadly little pickets around the deck, all painted blue. Behind them are Jem'Hadar. Step over and they shoot you. They shot eight the first day. Then James, on his birthday. Almost another one a little while ago."

"They shot somebody on the ship," he said. "I just saw the blood." He could see the open cage and the naked prisoners and the dried blood by the door. He tried to shake the image but now it was real.

"When they let us out of house arrest, they brought Dax to run this place. She's been miraculous. She's kept us together. Carl's little girl ran over the line and the Jem'Hadar were ready to shoot her and she got them to let her pick up the baby. She saved her life. Nobody else could have."

Mac was pretty sure she was dead, then, if Michael was talking about her. "Is she?" he asked.

"The Vorta was playing some game with her, and she got us things. She went on a muddy day, yesterday actually, and she didn't make it. Slipped and fell in the mud channel. Vorta tried to save her life. I guess she's gone now."

Michael sounded like he was ready to collapse but didn't have the time. "What now?" asked Mac.

"No idea. That's up to Them." He took a deep breath. "But you should already know that."

Then he went on about the ones they'd taken, including Julian. Contraband, he thought, wasn't something worth dying for. He was sure they'd let himself go since they were satisfied. He didn't want to know what happened if not.

Shandra came in, running. "They need you," she said, "I'll stay."

Mac looked up, opening his eyes but his vision was too blurry. Settling back, the grief and shock still so strong around him, he first understood that he had left one world and come back to one far darker and more terrible than they'd ever really imagined it could be.

End, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 7


	9. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 8

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 8

Everyone was alarmed when the doors didn't unlock, and breakfast didn't arrive. Megan had hurried that day, glad to work inside now. The early spring weather was unpredictable, but there had been much rain. Even Dan worked in the warehouse now. Greson had lost his authority to assign work. And while there was little to show that things had improved for them in their corner, it was time for the sarki to be too busy to have the energy to make trouble. The chips were ready, filling half a warehouse, and the ground softened by the rain, so the sarki were usually moved out first and breakfast came earlier than before.

But it was bad for all of them when the doors hadn't even opened that day. It was well past breakfast. Even the sarki were scared, especially some who had every reason. Outside was a lot of noise. Whispers had concluded a new shipment was in, and they'd have new residents before nightfall. They might sit all day unfed, but this was nothing unusual on transfer days. The sarki settled into their blankets and went back to sleep, at least some of them.

Greson and his friends did not. He'd been quiet since his authority was pulled, just doing what he was told. Dan watched him constantly, and Megan chose not to notice. For them, inside, nothing really had changed. They still stood in line last and worked two shifts. The outside work was now assigned by the blackies and they went by strength and known experience. They rotated door shoveling duty. But they would be leaving now. Maybe even all of them. The sarki were afraid of the next compound. One mistake and they would be sent through the gate. Megan hated their exile, but now that it's end was so near, she was afraid of what came next if it cowed the sarki so completely.

It was late afternoon, hungry and exhausted from the tension, that the doors opened. There stood a line of armed blackies, unfamiliar and in better uniforms than the others, who parted for someone in a blacksuit to stand and look them over.

"Which of you are slashed?" he asked.

Nobody quite knew what to do, but Megan stood and Dan followed, the others behind them hesitantly following suit. He addressed them. "Pack you personal belongings and blankets. You'll each receive a sack. Leave it on your space when your done and stand outside."

He ignored the sarki completely. The lower level of this new unit passed out the bags, attacking a wrist band to each of them which matched the bag. She remembered their arrival on Bajor. Trying not to look at the sarki, she and Dan hurried. Neither had much but they had collected a stack of blankets and between them the bags were full. She spared her former roommates a look, all of them sitting still and nervous, before going outside. Greson's smugness had vanished and he just looked scared. Even those she doubted had anything to do with his dealings looked afraid. But this new unit must have been replacing the old one and she knew enough about CA to know the old had run into trouble. She also knew for someone like Greson it could be fatal. She made sure not to look at Dan, but hurried him out.

Outside, it was cool and there was a blustery wind. They were all infested with the fluffbugs and the fleas had hatched and none of the soldiers wanted to come near them. They were ordered back, further away from the door, as a double cargo truck was pulled into place. It's sides and ramps were opened. They watched closely as sarki started dragging out the heavy baggage they'd left with armed guards behind them. With all the blankets it took two to lift them and the soldiers ran out a crew to help, who appeared to be spooked by something which had happened inside. She and Dan were standing close together, and she watched. Dan was not the only one with considerable satisfaction in his eyes. Megan still despised them, but remembered the day the office had not opened and could still not go there.

Once their bags had been loaded, the first segment was pulled away, and a decon truck brought in. Then a line of sarki started carrying out matts, putting them in the truck. It stunk of the most recent work and their eyes were watering from the smell. Megan didn't feel sorry for them, but still couldn't enjoy the small taste of revenge. They were being worked as their slashies usually were for punishment of something done by the corner. She wondered if by the end of the day they too would live in the next, last stop of the series of compounds.

But first the matts had gone, and the truck closed. Then all the extra blankets, the whole new shipment were hauled out and dumped, and their prisoners sent in for more. The pile was too big to be just theirs or the leftovers. They were clearing out the building. Perhaps the sarki too.

The wind was blowing harder now, and the slashies huddled closer. Dan unexpectedly took her hand, holding it tight. He was nervous. Maybe he'd gotten all the revenge he wanted and now wondered, as she did, if the sarki were being treated this way, what about them?

The decon truck was towed to the gate and it opened. Then another came, the sides down and the blankets were folded this time, each one carefully and redone if not to standards. The sarki were just doing as they were told now, not thinking, and not looking at the rifles at all. There was no blood spatter and they hadn't heard any shots, but something had happened. And nobody had seen Greson or his family or his lieutenants and theirs.

Megan gripped Dan's hand as she couldn't stop the memory of sitting in that room, waiting, knowing. Sir's desk was empty and Sir was probably being tortured by then. Some of those in the room would die a horrible death with her. For a brief, but vivid moment, she had a flash of something else, someone demanding she tell the truth and then a scream. Her scream, she realized, and the snap of a strap as it bit into her skin. Shaking, Dan put his arm around her, holding her tight. The guards were ignoring them, too preoccupied with their new slaves, and Dan held just her, whispering she was okay, that was over.

A thought she'd never had, that Dan had his own demons and abuse to remember distracted her as he repeated his words, another flash of another sound that made her cringe and a louder scream suddenly faded. She watched as the pale and scared women folded each blanket with care and handed them to the men who carried them up to the truck. Dan did not let go, and tears ran down her cheeks. She tried to make them stop but they wouldn't go. She wasn't sure who they were for, her and the things she'd suffered or Dan had when they'd beaten and tied and dumped him or these people, some of whom had really never done a thing to them. For a moment the whole misery their world had become was shared.

But the wind was cold and they were all huddling closer now. The sun was fading, the sky turning beautiful pink and orange hues as darkness marched in. The blankets loaded, the sarki were forced back inside at gunpoint, and the doors shut. The decon truck was already hooked up and they were ordered to follow it. Megan was cold and hungry and shaking, but not from that. She wanted to find a place to curl up and cry and let the memories come so she could banish them. She wanted the day, no matter what it brought, to be over. Dan had lost his look of satisfaction and anger, now just tired and nervous. Nobody stopped them holding each other as they moved forward.

At the gate, the truck rumbled ahead. When it had vanished, they were told to move toward the building labeled Intake.

Inside, the door just an open arch, it was still chilly but the wind was kept out. A woman in greys ordered them to group in bond pairs. None had heard the term but it was clear what it meant. She and Dan didn't let go of each other, but with all the suits and tables and more of the machines the past nightmare finally let go of her.

Nobody spoke to them, just gave abrupt orders. These were not military but suits and they were just animals being stowed and marked. Separated, they were both marked with a symbol and number on the right hand. Then their residential group was marked on the left. Then they were pointed towards a corridor labeled decontamination.

o0o

Miles just wanted them to go. It was still too unbelievable that Dax was dying or dead and had left him in this nightmare. The devotion in their eyes, and the grief they were trying to hold back was to hard to watch. He knew her. He'd worked with her for a year since the war had trapped them here. She'd been different from the station, but so withdrawn she'd sometimes seemed to fade away into her own reality. What had happened to make her into this sudden icon that even Carl could not let go of?

Dinner had been good, but as Emery said he would be back early, Miles just said good night. As the door shut, he looked at E'Char. "I don't know where I am. These aren't the same people anymore. How can they expect me to?"

E'Char smiled. "Because they know you are strong. Because you must."

He collapsed into a chair. The exhaustion of the walk, and the sudden change catching up. "Stay with me. I need you."

"I am borne of you. But I could not. I would not. But," he said, walking to the bedroom door, "We must rest. There will be much to do tomorrow. And we can paint the sand."

Miles forced himself to his feet. Opening the door, he stood looking in. Everything of hers sat where she'd left it, tossed casually as if she expected to return. But the room wasn't empty. He experimentally walked inside, but it was too crowded with memories and fears and senses that did not belong to him. "I can't," he said, backing out, closing the door.

There was a couch. The cushion was soft and there was a blanket laying at the end, evidently for the staff to rest. He sat, and the weariness crept closer. "This is luxury over the floor," he said as he pulled off his boots, laying out on the cushion, holding the blanket.

E'Char stayed with him, but as Miles fell into an exhausted sleep, the last he remembered was the quiet declaration that she might be lonely, that E'Char would teach her the peace of painting with the sand.

But Miles knew that whatever trials lay ahead for him, she was finally free.

o0o

Megan complied, all of them did, when told to strip, eager to be rid if the bugs. This was a shower style decon, the first areas spraying the fluid, and the second a real shower, the water even warm enough to wash almost all of it off. In-between, they sat on benches, mostly as couples, while the fluid had time to work. It itched a little, but even more felt like being smothered in goo. Finally washed clean they took clothes, the back marking them as slashed, and dressed. There were more benches, these dry, as they waited quietly for the next stop in their journey.

She noticed Dan had relaxed a little, and thought of how this moment was one they dreaded, for it was the final stop of a one way trip. But then, it was also what they'd hoped for for so long. Time stretched out as an eternity as they sat while nobody looked or gave them orders.

But just before the door opened and they were ordered out, Dan smiled at her touching the bond mark. It was a recognition of their mating, even if it had not yet happened. But the memories had helped, she realized. Now, they were no longer just terrible mysteries. Now she might find a way to live with them.

The next room was large, with the pallets of blankets sitting along the sides the sarki had so nervously folded. But it was all of them. Told to line up, they went first. Each had the wristband checked and a count of blankets and a the bag returned. She looked towards the pad of paperwork the woman was holding, matching the number. Their sacks had been searched, now relieved of the blankets and not so heavy. But the blanket count was taken from her list. Their belongings had been deconned in the dry chamber where they used a gas and nothing was damaged. She wondered why they got such consideration, considering the meaning of the slash.

The blankets were rolled and tied, and they were told to take them and their things and follow the guard. But it wasn't orders, just the orderly processing of an assembly line they were so used to they barely looked at the new slashies. And the guards wore the informal uniform of the slashie military. They weren't armed. The gates were manned with armed guards, but other than that there were no rifles in evidence.

Dan looked up at their guard, whispering, "Conscripts."

But conscripts were slashed. These were wearing gloves, but there was no marking on their uniforms. They stopped in the middle of a row of eight huge barns, twice the size of the largest of the others in the sarki area. The doors opened, and the area was lit from the outside in by the compound security lights.

Inside, in a huge fully filled barn, two times as big but with more than twice the residents, twenty stacks of matts sat to a side, five for each. The blanket count was taken and they were handed additional blankets. Everything was free of bugs but smelled strongly of decon, but given the choice it was good. The others, all of them, were sitting on their already assembled blankets, absolutely silent but closely watching the new residents.

Dan and Megan were third and fourth to settle, and took a place near the edge, closer to the rest, pulling two stacks of matts together and sat, waiting for the next step. He still held her hand. She realized how much it mattered that he was there.

It didn't take long to settle all of them. The guard in charge, one of the slashie dressed ones, announced dinner would come in twenty minutes. Everyone in the room looked appreciative and she wondered if they had lost a meal too. Then the doors were shut. The light was low and would fade, but they just sat, waiting, as four people stood and advanced toward their new neighbors.

The first one, a tall man with thick beard and dark hair, his build muscular but stringy, came close and stopped, the others behind him. All of the men were bearded. He made a speech, welcoming them but warning them too. It wasn't threatening but it was absolutely and uncompromisingly firm. It was quite obvious that he held the absolute authority there and it was freely given him by everyone in the room.

"This is Slashed Group 4. We have never had trouble in this group, and we will not. Others have but Groups are dealt with separately." He came closer, watching them, especially she and Dan. "Inside, we have our own rules and this is *our* barn. They don't make rules for inside and don't care what ones we make. They want cooperation and leave us alone if they get it. If they don't they don't ask our rules either, but use theirs. That doesn't happen here."

They were a village, she thought, and a new group of wanderers was being allowed in. Not that they had a choice, she knew, but just the same it was possible to live in a barn and be alone. His concentration on she and Dan made it quite clear they were responsible for their own as well, and whatever 'enforcement' they chose.

"Our basic rule is we do not make trouble. You do not steal or smuggle or fight with them as someone in the sarki group you were with has. Some of them will be executed. Some will be deported. The rest will be marked and come to be with us. Any who come here will be your responsibility. If they were guilty of anything they will not just be slashed, but you must make sure they understand our rules. And we have our own discipline."

Dan was just looking at him, a fascination she'd never seen in his eyes. Dan needed someone to believe in. She thought he'd found him now. "We are property out there, in case you haven't got that yet. They own us. But in here they don't. We are a community with *laws*. Someone will come and talk later with you about them, but as we need dinner now and the light will be gone soon you need to arrange your matts."

"I'm honored, then," said Dan.

The man softened, just a little. "These barns are large but they are thick walled and don't get as cold as the others, or as hot. And just so you understand, we get a ration smaller than the other compound, thus we punish with absolute finality our own who *cause* any reductions. A community takes care of itself. But the conscripted military unit doesn't like the bugs and decons every two weeks. And while we have minimal medical care, if any of you are skilled at it we have in the past been allowed medicines for simple treatments. If you are trained, please see me tonight so we can see what you can do. One rule is that each owes something to the community, and jobs are given on a basis of what your capable of." Maybe he noticed the fascination and pride in Dan's eyes, but he relaxed a little. "But that is for later. Get yourselves arraigned before dinner. We call you up in sections but take care that no one is shorted."

Dan looked up, and she saw admiration in his eyes. The man moved forward, bending down where only they could hear. "I understand you lead this group. Later if you could come to my matts," he said. "I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Galen. We don't use last names, unless someone is slashed military, but in here they use their given name."

"I'm Dan, this is Megan," said Dan, now a little hesitant. He was looking at the mark. "I suppose this makes her my wife," he said, squeezing her hand with his.

"Bond mark, also called a mating symbol. But that's what it does. Your children will be marked that way as well."

"This is very different," she said cautiously.

"It's not going to change anything outside, though the guards are technically slashed too so they don't fight you if you don't fight them. But we don't have to give them everything and in this place, we don't."

He nodded and left them to arrange their new home. Megan watched as Dan didn't take his eyes off of the man. He needed something to believe in and now, she knew, he had found it. She wasn't going to idealize anything, or anyone, but just maybe, now, she could find a place to belong and a way out of the nightmare with Dan at her side.

o0o

Jackson was giving him a tour. Miles had slept soundly that night, partly from exhaustion, and in a small way because E'Char felt so peaceful. When word of her death had come in the morning, sealing his fate, Emery had offered to pack her things. Jackson, hit harder by her death, had volunteered to show him their little world.

Miles could see better, not well but well enough to navigate on his own. He followed Jackson as he stumbled along as if in a trance. Miles looked around him, the world soft and cloudy, and wished it could stay that way. Tomorrow or the day following it would sharpen and he would see just how much it had changed. Then Jackson stopped, the line of blue posts in hazy view.

"Did they brief you on blue line, Sir?" asked Jackson quietly.

"More or less. A death line."

"They shot eight of us, more or less randomly picked, the first day. Just shoved them across and killed them as a demonstration. Nobody since then. But, well, almost . . . . " Jackson trailed off.

"They killed James," said Miles, the image of his still, pale form still vivid in his mind. "We got to watch them carry him out. Bastards left him there all night."

E'Char was behind him. Miles almost looked back to make sure, he was being so silent.

Both of the living men were quiet, thinking of the dead and the things they would never do.

"She saved my daughter, you know, my baby. She didn't know about their line. She was just running. She got on the other side and I was afraid they would kill her. They would have killed us if we'd tried to get her." Jackson seemed as distant as Jadzia had an age ago.

"What did she do?" said Miles, placing a hand on his arm and thinking of his own children, wondering if they lived next to a line of Jem'Hadar too.

"She talked to them, said it was only a child and the parents would make sure she wouldn't do it again. They listened to her. They let her cross the line and pick up my baby."

Miles was silent. He tried not to, but thought of his own family, thinking that they might be in a worse place than this. By all rights, so should everyone on Cyrus. He still didn't want to know why they were so lucky. Jackson must have noticed the look, turning to face him. "I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't think. It's just . . . . "

Miles escaped into his mask, the one he wore that covered up all the pain and emptiness he lived with. "That's all right. I'm glad your daughter is safe." He began to walk away, slowly, his mind somewhere else. E'Char was beside him, offering silent support.

Jackson stared at the little innocent line of blue posts. "He warned her, the next time they'd die. Somehow, there can't be a next time."

Miles paused, watching as Jackson backed away, stumbling back but keeping his distance. Neither of them really wanted company. He kept wondering when the next accident or wandering child would happen, or someone was bent on suicide. He'd be the one to answer for it then.

E'Char smiled. "Be strong. I remain."

He stopped, E'Char very close, thinking of the blue posts as he remembered holding the phaser to his head that day. Close enough to find his way back without help, he decided to allow himself to enjoy the sunshine for a little while.

The sun was still hazy, but bright enough. He hadn't seen it for such a long time. The rain had held off until later, and the air smelled clean and good. He wasn't alone. Without E'Char he did not know if he could manage.

He saw his hand as he'd let Julian take the phaser. E'Char touched his hand. "I'll be fine," he muttered.

Somewhere, in a place where time and space did not matter, Keiko was near. Molly and his own baby were close to her. Somehow, he knew that someday she'd stand with him. He did not want to go on forever here without them. But deep inside, he knew the cost would be far more than he could even imagine that day.

o0o

Cary Larson dipped out another bowl of soup. It was evening. The soup was thick with shreds of the ration cakes, and the vegetables were soft and breaking apart. The spices had soaked in and he wished there was enough for seconds.

He'd eaten before he started his shift. It was still hard to serve others food when he was still hungry.

At first, the people around him had simply been in shock. But in the time since the first deaths, they had become resigned to this life. It was normal to them now. Each day they put up with mud and rain and ate their food. Their children played and had learned not to say they were hungry. They were grateful, at the end of each day, that nothing unusual had happened.

But then James had been executed. His still living body was carried past everyone as a reminder. They remembered all the rest that had died, of the eight that had been shot across the blue line, and the child who had not.

It was different after that for time before it became normal again.

Now Dax was gone, too. Her death was special because it left an emptiness in the day. She always greeted them with a calm smile. No matter that the Jem'Hadar stood across the line or there was never quite enough to eat. She reminded them that there was still tomorrow.

The Chief had taken a walk the day after his arrival. But he'd been in shock and hardly said a word to anyone. Instead of hope he'd just reminded them of how uncertain life was.

Cary watched their faces as they came to his line. He still smiled at them, and sometimes they smiled back. A few said thank you. But most took their food and fled, seeking whatever comfort they had found in a private place. She had been a small ray of hope, and now she was gone. All the illusions had been shattered.

James and eight of their neighbors had been murdered. They all knew that tomorrow one of them might be the next victim, and acted accordingly. They obeyed the rules. They kept away from the line and kept children carefully under their control. The end of the day was accepted as a gift.

But losing Dax was different. At first, lost in the shock, her death had been random chance. She'd fallen where any could have. But since O'Brien had come and shown the pain in his eyes and the lost look he wore, they had started to reconsider.

She'd died because of the rock. Their captors knew the mud would flood the trail. They knew someone might fall into the ditch. They could have eliminated the rock without even being asked and she would never have fallen.

But they hadn't. Instead, she had walked a dangerous pathway and landed on jagged rocks. The rock still blocked most of the water and mud and it drained across the path. When O'Brien was called he could fall, too.

They were no more than pawns, all of them. Some were more heavily used, but even if the Vorta had taken her away for a time, he had still let her die. It was all just a holoplay and they were characters trapped inside the field with no safeties.

Cary would still have been hiding from his roommates if not for her. She had convinced him to watch the supplies and serve the food. He wouldn't change his decision now, but it didn't matter much anymore.

They'd come and eat. Then they'd flee back inside where the line and the guards and the shadow of death could be shielded from view. Their children would cry themselves to sleep, but they'd keep quiet. Perhaps they'd dream of revenge. But nothing would be spoken.

Dax had made them think of tomorrow, but O'Brien and his dark, brooding eyes only reminded them that the best they could do was get through today.

Cary checked the soup. This batch was getting low. He motioned to one of the helpers in the back to move the next forward.

He'd give them food. By dinner it would even taste good. At the end of the day there'd be more to prepare and count. He'd go on.

And finally, when it was done and he could dream again, she'd be there. All he could do was call to her, and she to him, but it was enough to give him a reason to face tomorrow and in the quiet of the night share a place there was no time or fear, just longing and love and memories. It was enough he could face another day.

o0o

Two days after his first tour, Miles followed the Jem'Hadar again as they led him across the line. He could see well enough and the sun didn't make his head pound too bad. His stomach was almost too full. Or perhaps it was the fear inside that made it hurt so much.

He tried to remember all the tips Jackson had given him, but stepping over the line he'd pushed away the foreboding that invaded his mind. A year before, the broken pieces of the Antelope had been scattered here. It was a place of death. Now, the means were deliberate, but there were too many ghosts.

E'Char didn't come. He knew he could have asked, but this was his task alone. Jadzia had understood, and now he must try to do as well.

His escorts slowing, he realized they were near the cut steps that led to the original settlement. The rain had gone for a few days and the mud was dry enough to take the shorter path today. Moving carefully, taking the steps with caution, everything still looking "soft", he followed, wishing she was here instead, afraid that he could not pretend well enough and the Vorta would take away what he had granted. He'd rather have been locked inside that box, hungry and forming the sand with E'Char than this. If the Vorta had waited a few days to call her, Dax would still be here in his place.

Standing before a building, the guards signaling their arrival, he banished the Antelope and all the might-have-beens and remembered all the advise he'd gotten about how to present himself before the Vorta.

He was motioned to go inside. The Jem'Hadar stepped back and he slowly opened the door.

Glebaroun sat at one of the desks used by the Supply people. Everything had been cleared away. Miles slowly entered, waiting just past the door.

He silently repeated the advise he'd gotten. Play along with the mood. Let the Vorta take the lead. Always remember that he was the ultimate one in charge. At least the third part would be easy.

Glebaroun indicated a chair. "Sit. Rest." Miles sat carefully, noting the resignation in his host. People believed that the Vorta hadn't cared about Jadzia, but he could see the disappointment in his violet eyes. He was used to her. He wasn't sure what to say to O'Brien.

When Miles had been fresh out of Engineering school, he'd worked for an officer named Wingatt. Wingatt had worked on everything from small stations to starships, and as an engineer was excellent. But he had never figured out how to deal with people. In his vast experience, he had come to believe that no one had better ideas than his own. The Vorta's attitude reminded him of that particular piece of ancient history. He'd learned to sit and nod and speak when requested, and then, when all was done, do his job. He would let that memory guide him today.

"Your family name is O'Brien, I believe."

"Yes, it is, Sir," said Miles neutrally, thinking it was an odd question. The Vorta had a padd sitting before him and appeared to be investigating something, and Miles allowed himself to hope. Did they know where his family were or had Kira succeeded in hiding them so well they were still missing?

"Then we can begin. I believe your assistant has explained your duties."

"Essentially, Sir," said Miles.

"We shall begin with the problem unequal rations have created," said Glebaroun, and handed Miles a pad of paper to take notes.

It was so odd, sitting across the desk from the creature who'd murdered so casually and imposed such suffering but still somehow made Miles feel like he was sitting at one of Sisko's meetings long before at the station. Aside from the problem with transferring the hospital's portions of their rations, there was nothing of particular importance even said. Then, later, all the details done, he was excused. With a pad of paper in hand, he followed his guards back past the line. Then he excused himself and fled to the room she had lived, now bare of her things, but, he hoped, filled a little with her inspiration.

He needed to rest. But mostly, he needed to think. Because despite the obvious way the Vorta was feeling him out, and his almost childish need to play teacher and student, there was an odd feeling of desperation too, and he wondered if it wasn't just that he had things set with Dax and knew how to deal, but would have to figure him out.

Of course, Emery had told him how he seemed so receptive to Dax and how much they'd gotten out of it, and now he was giving more. And that just didn't match his vision of a ruthless Vorta with unlimited authority and no need for anyone to like it at all. Unless, that wasn't quite the picture anymore. But there would be other visits and it was his turn to give Emery and Jackson the good news that the enemy was still cooperating with them.

He wouldn't tell them that it gave him a chill worse than if he acted like the enemy.

o0o

Four hours later, Miles sat in what was now his office, reviewing the meeting with Jackson and Emery. Once the door closed when he'd returned he had retreated to the privacy of his room and tried to clear out the images that filled his mind. Then he had read over his notes, trying to not hear the Vorta's voice behind the words. Then he had summarized everything again, leaving the original pages behind so he wouldn't be reminded of the ordeal so much. Then he had called his two assistants.

They would be curious what lure he was dangling for Miles, but he was only giving them the edited version.

"He wants a list of everybody who goes to the hospital so they get their full rations. This is a daily list, with anyone who goes with them listed too. He thinks people are refusing so they won't lose that little bit more. If they have someone go with them for care they get doubled up too."

Miles could tell he must sound as tired as he felt. It was as much from relief as from the exhaustion of the walk. The three hour meeting had been very odd, it growing harder to pretend as time had gone by. Every moment he looked up at the Vorta, keeping his mask carefully in place, inside he thought of James and it was harder to cover the revulsion. And yet, there was so much more, and it would be even harder next time since he could see it now. But he had managed that day and would the next time. He had looked studious and cooperative for three hours and safely in his new quarters had collapsed in relief when it was over.

Emery was watching him closely but did not react. "That's very close to the truth, actually. He's got good sources. We have tried to split them but unless we have someone going there we can't get them up the hill."

Nobody really wanted to think of what these sources were. Or who.

"We give them a list," said Miles tiredly, "and the patients get their rations and we do too. He'll have it delivered to us, and we can send two people up there with it without having to have a patients along." He stared at the room where Jadzia had lived. "I have no idea why he's doing this, but since we get to distribute the food equally here, I'm not going to ask why."

Miles thought about the way he'd had to pretend again, wondering if it would get easier to sit across from a murderer and act like he wasn't. Or if it was going to be even harder to see the fear and pretend it wasn't there. Mostly, he just wished he'd chosen somebody else to replace Jadzia.

"She was leading him on," said Jackson. "Maybe he thinks he can get you to replace her as his chief convert."

Emery shrugged. "We get more food and our people won't be afraid to admit they're sick."

Miles was waiting for them to suggest a reason why he wanted a convert at all, but they apparently had decided to just play it for all they could get. Staring at the bedroom door, he wondered if he'd have to play the same game to keep these things. And if, perhaps, it might lead to getting his family back, maybe even sooner. Or would they be put some place 'safe' and be his hostage in a trap he might not be able pry himself out of. He didn't know anymore. "I suppose we can't lose. I just wish I knew why he's so worried."

"She used to wonder about that too," said Jackson. She just took advantage of whatever it got us."

Miles remembered the hungry time in the box, and the torment that had preceded it. He didn't know if he could pretend well enough when things got more dicey, even for the family. But then, he knew he'd find a way. "It's too bad the one's they have in boxes can't share in this bounty." He shook his head. "You have no idea how lucky you are. You aren't locked inside. You have enough to eat. You aren't in the dark all the time."

His assistants grew very quiet.

Finally, glancing at Jackson, Emery said, "I'm sorry, Sir, but we meant no disrespect. We do feel for the others. It's just that we can't do anything for them right now." His look said he had been chastised and accepted it.

It was the tone that surprised Miles. He'd let out a little of the pain inside and hadn't meant it as criticism. But he couldn't quite forget the trace of ice there had been, too. They had it lucky but didn't see it that way. They knew how things were for the others, but didn't let it in.

In this world, there were roles. His was to sit and listen to Glebaroun and calmly call him "Sir". He got to cross the blue line with an escort and live to tell of it since he had an official reason. They had to listen to him belittle their problems, even unintentionally, and say they were sorry. Bitterly, he understood that the Dominion and its rules had intruded far deeper into their lives than any of them imagined, and he couldn't think of a way to change it.

They were waiting for him to say something. It was expected.

"Look, I know things have been bad here too. Things are bad for everyone right now. We can't do anything about it so we'll drop it."

Both of them nodded. Miles wanted his dinner and some sleep. It would be dark soon anyway, and they needed to get home.

Hesitantly, Jackson said, "Sir, you did a very good job today. It's . . . hard."

Miles watched, and almost felt something. It was too dangerous to feel right then. "I don't know how she managed to do it, but I suppose if it gets food I'll try." He put the paperwork down and stood. "Look, go home. Eat. I'd like some rest."

He almost asked them to call him something other than "Sir", but they were as trapped in their roles as he was in his.

They nodded and disappeared. He would get his own dinner. It was still spooky to go into the space Jadzia had filled. But alone, E'Char came back.

"They don't know," he said.

Miles closed his door, E'Char behind him. Outside, he saw the people sitting quietly in the dusk, watching the darkening colors of the clouds against the fading sun.

He'd only seen it in glimpses before. Tonight, he'd like to watch the darkness come before he had to go inside. E'Char was right. They didn't understand. But he had no words to tell them.

He shut his outside door, thinking of those who could not choose when to eat or leave. He could not play Jadzia's game, not when they still sat lost in the darkness and hunger. He wouldn't abandon it either, but do it his way. But he understood more fully than ever what had made the Bajor they'd found when the Cardassians were finally gone. Somewhere, his family had to live, and before he found a way to bring them home, he hoped they could find a less painful place than his between survival and compromise.

o0o

Kira watched from the rear of the meeting as Narven spoke to his young followers, if that could still be said of them. They'd been excited about the food and the tunnels, but that was running out and Narven had to find some other lure to hold their attention now.

They were so young, raised on visions of freedom, and for a few years had lived as free people. But that had ended with the Dominion's conquest of Bajor, and they had chosen to follow one of it's old traditions, resistance.

There was another tradition, survival. She'd resisted before, but now there was no gain in Narven's version. If they were lucky, Central Authority would capture them before they'd fought back. Of if the Jem'Hadar found them they'd likely sell them to the blacksuits. If they weren't lucky then they'd resist too hard and they'd just end up dead. Kira had listened as Odo talked of his travels. The Dominion was losing the area. If they lived, Narven and his band would end up with some sort of mark. Narven would understand, she thought, but the rest she suspected would simply abandon him if he tried to tell them.

Narven was putting on a good show, she thought, but if you looked closer he mostly looked lost, despite his enthusiasm. The others were too young to notice, but she could see the worry that lay behind the strong voice as he explained how they'd reach out. So far he had managed to keep them busy in the tunnels, preparing for the new resistance and the new soldiers who would come. But there was another tradition left from the Cardassians, that of compromise and betrayal. These young survivors wanted revenge, and he was giving them a way, a plan to fill their dreams and direct their anger. But just the same, any one of them could have been ready to betray him for the right price. Or perhaps had already. The Cardassians acted quickly but she knew the Dominion did not. Or perhaps they or their new competitor would let them gather and when they were hungry enough, give them all a choice.

And Narven knew that most of the Bajorans had simply tried to survive, and sometimes the Resistance got in their way. She had learned this in time, after it was done and she had had to expand her horizons. But they were different enemies. The Cardassians wiped out their victims in a haphazard way. The Dominion simply wiped out everyone. Or they had. This new Civil Authority, which would no doubt be the next intruder, kept the bodies alive but subjugated the mind, and now the Jem'Hadar were helping collect for them. They were equally as deadly, in their own way, since these 'blacksuits' as Odo had heard them called understood the difference between no hope, and enough of a trace of it to want to live. If it mattered enough to live, they owned a part of you.

She and Odo would be gone from Narven's lair before that time came. But he had to rest. She wouldn't ask what was wrong, and wouldn't betray his condition, but she treasured each day that passed now knowing they were so limited.

Even more so for Narven, if some of his own chose to survive and ran. Privately, Narven had those he trusted watching the others. He believed that none of them would make it out of the tunnels alive. She was sure they knew, and didn't quite trust him either. But it didn't really matter. Whoever caught them, they'd be dead or slaved by the blacksuits.

But she and Odo would meet far different fates. When he was rested enough, he planned to go on an 'expedition' and she would disappear with him and then, Narven was on his own. Perhaps a betrayal, but she, too, wanted to live.

She was tired of pretending to be the Kira Neres that Narven still believed she was, who would have died in preference to surrender. Perhaps she understood her mother's choice a little better now. And Odo had a plan, one she saw as their only real chance. But Narven could not be trusted. He might doom more than his own, if anyone was left above them, but then he already had.

He still thought the enemy was the Dominion. But she knew better. At first, the Jem'Hadar had watched as the local traitors under their 'official' government tried to take control. When it didn't work, they'd moved in and cleaned up the mess, sometimes not seeing any difference between sides. The depopulated examples would have even stunned Dukat. Before, Narven was dooming his followers and all that mattered to them to that fate. But now, soon, it would be to another more bitter ending. Like the thieves Odo had seen being sold with their booty, Narven was now simply going to create the perfect trap for them to raid and collect the merchandise.

He'd finished his speech, filling his young lions with more impossible dreams. Now he was just standing alone, rather quiet. The dreams had been scaled down, but their goal hadn't changed. They were ready to offer sanctuary and food. From them, their army was supposed to grow. She wondered if they really believed it, or it was too hard to allow the alternative.

The few hungry survivors would come. She watched him as he stood, waiting for the lions to react when she wondered. Maybe he did understand that all his plan would do was create a trap. Had they heard about the new collaborators come conquerors? Did he think he'd keep the people who came for sanctuary from them in his cave? Or did he know their value was greater if they were alive?

Or did he just want them to live? In the cave, with no alternative, they'd live. They'd live as slaves, but the Jem'Hadar would just shoot them. What was better? The lions believed they were going to save their own. Watching Narven, she had no idea what he thought was going to come of his plan. Was he so trapped in dreams of revenge he'd settle for a last stand? Could he even conceive that it would be for nothing? But then, before, she wondered, would *she* have understood?

Watching Narven, she considered he might also have seen through her 'ideas' and if he did know of the blackies if he might have already made a deal. Were she and Odo the kicker that got him, perhaps, a special reward?

In the places where the Bajorans had been emptied out, they were filling the space with many others. She didn't want to see her people lose that spirit which had kept her alive, but she didn't want them to destroy themselves either. The new people, survivors of judgements who wanted enough to live they'd surrendered themselves, were simply glad to be alive, even if trapped in a foreign place.

As was she. Looking at Narven, and the Lions as they stood talking together, she knew the Bajor where she grew up was already gone. And the one in that short sweet time had already shattered. And the one they'd make would be quite different than either. She could never go home, it was dead. And she wanted to live too.

She didn't like Odo's plan. But they'd know who Kira Neres was. Whatever future they had, she would not be allowed to be a part. But if she was lucky, the woman she became just might have that chance.

She'd hoped it to be with Odo, but already understood that was not to be. In the meantime, regardless of Narven or blacksuits, she would treasure every day they had.

o0o

Odo was sitting up, resting after the meeting with Narven. He took walks, exercising so he could make the journey out, but needed time. When they left Narven behind depended on the situation, but on their own needs too. If the journey was going to take a long time, then they would set out early. He was doing better without the constant wear of changing form and the stress of running in the open. And Narven had embraced the idea of this new resistance. It was pity he wouldn't lead it. He might do well. Or maybe, if he was lucky and they left him alive, he might be able to one day.

Odo chose to believe that day would come, thought the world they made wouldn't much resemble what they planned.

Kira gave him a warning before her approach, and he welcomed her as she sat next to him. "I spoke with him for some time. I will try to make him understand. But his lions are impatient. He needs far more of them."

"Did you come up with this idea of food and shelter, or him?" she asked.

Odo hadn't really cared about Narven's fate until his journey. But like her, the man *did* see the differences. "Neither. One of the others. He can't stop them. They've largely dismissed him already."

"Yes, they have." She looked at him. "We need to go. Before they find any of them. And I was watching him. I don't trust him. He could have found his way out in the open while you were gone. If he thinks we've betrayed him," she whispered.

Odo looked at her thoughtfully. "He did *seem* to have embraced the plan, as he knows it. But then," he stopped, listening. "And your right, they are in the area. And his family could still be alive. They'd know who he was."

Kira watched him closely. "This tunnel I found is not known by them. I'm sure. And there's side pathways if we want to stop for awhile. I don't want to hide forever, but then," she said, looking at him.

"I told him a little, especially about the men from Central Authority and what they do, how they'll capture who they can alive and slave them, but not like the old enemy did. He doesn't really understand., but he does know they'll come. He knows just enough that he should take a warning. But then, what did you see?"

She said quietly. "Nothing in particular. Nothing but a suspicion. But he *felt* wrong today even if his followers didn't notice."

Odo sat up a little straighter, but was tense. "The lions wouldn't be good enough the ruin the trap, but when word gets out and he draws he rest, they will. And I trust you intuition. I said I'd check again, see where they were soon. You should be ready."

She'd moved food and provisions past the known area, so they could leave without too much notice. Not all the rations got stored in Narven's locked room. But he didn't know that. "Are *you* ready?" she asked.

He wasn't. But then, he never would be. "Enough. And as empty as the area is, it will take time for him to issue this invitation. I suspect he'll want to wait until I look, as well. But he may not be able to. Just be ready."

She nodded. "He's trapped. If he doesn't give them something they'll act on their own. They all need to pay someone back."

"And if they find us, it might be us first." She looked away. "We shouldn't need to worry here, though. Theft is currently rampant and the black market flourishing, and since there is nobody to sell them too yet, they just shoot first in their case. Make sure you have enough rations for a longer journey than we planned. Before these young warriors are caught and try to save themselves, no matter *how* I feel we need to be gone."

She sat quietly, staring into the gloomy reflections. "Once upon a time I'd have called myself a traitor. I don't want to sacrifice them. But they'll sacrifice themselves anyway."

"Or maybe," he said, "Maybe CA will catch them. They want bodies, and they're young and useful. And if they want resistance, CA will lock them into their caste system and when the time is right, they'll find it. You might have called yourself a traitor, but you'd live to fight tomorrow."

"No," she said, "No, not me. Not now. Now, someone else who looks like me."

She didn't ask about him, but then, he suspected she knew how sick he was. And he knew how much she would have detested her hiding in plain sight, if there was any alternative. "But you'll live," he said.

She settled next to him, both staying out of the way until Narven's excited sacrifices found something to do. And he held her with an arm that was too weak, now grateful that when they slept it was too dark to tell how hard it was to let go. And he wondered. Why had CA gained such authority, and so quickly? Why had they been allowed to take the place of the Jem'Hadar so many places, if his listenings were right. Why would his own ever permit that?

She lay down to rest, but he wasn't ready yet. And an idea, perhaps a suspicion, was forming. He had once been infected to draw him home, and they'd changed him. But they had drawn him into the link first. Had that contact contaminated them, and then perhaps sickened them as something had himself? He had thought perhaps the child he'd absorbed was the source of this illness, but *something* had gone drastically wrong with his own kind for their carefully bred creatures to have let go so quickly.

If he was lucky, he would know before he was just dust if he had brought this new nightmare upon all of them.

o0o

Lonnie was nervous, standing just beyond the locked gate, her three staff people staying close. She remembered too well the day they'd brought James, and then Dax. She'd had a scared, half-queasy feeling waiting those times. James had been almost three weeks ago, and Jadzia only a few days before. This time it wasn't any easier wondering who was next.

Inside, death always waited. Two had died since Dax, one a child. Leaving their nightmarish place it was a surprise if there were no bodies to deal with afterwards. It was just easier that way.

But this time was different. She'd been awakened very early, with only the first glimpse of dawn visible when she and her staff were ordered outside. The air was crisp and cool, so fresh and clean, but still tainted by what she knew would face them.

They'd been moved further this time, too. Standing half-way into the square, they waited with their guards. Trying not to look at the Jem'Hadar, she studied the land around her. A few of the native grasses had started to grow on the hill. Trying to look calm, she let herself enjoy the glimpse of outside. She breathed in deeply, knowing for a little while she'd notice the thickness of the air inside.

The sun peaked above the dark horizon, its bright rays half-blinding after the dimly lit hospital. But she hoped they'd take their time. It wouldn't make a difference. There would still be death at the end. But she'd like to see the sun rise and remember there was a tomorrow somewhere past this dark tunnel.

Then the guards stiffened, and something was transported. In the sudden flash that characterized Dominion transport, two bodies appeared on the moss covered ground in front of her. They'd already been bagged, and one bundle appeared as well.

They moved quickly. The bundle was tossed over an orderly's shoulder. The four of them took feet or shoulders and carried the limp bodies inside. The bundle was heavy and they dropped it by the door. The orderly dashed outside and dragged it in.

Then the door shut and they were again locked inside. And no matter how stale, there was safety in the stench that surrounded them.

It was early, before breakfast, but she was impatient. There would be too much work later to look at the bodies. Stretchers were brought and the two bodies moved to the empty room used for autopsies. The bundle was hauled there as well.

She didn't wait for Jabara, but retrieved the tricorder. Scanning the first, she found something embedded in his neck which read as a tag. Fingering the one she wore around her neck on a string, she realized the ones arrested would have been internally tagged already. She didn't allow herself to think about how the rest would follow when they were done.

But, looking at the tricorder, it was odd,. There was no scar tissue around the tag, almost as if it had been healed when they'd forced it in. Why would they heal the wound on a prisoner they had likely intended to execute anyway? She would add this to the file of oddities in her desk when she went to her office.

The tricorder couldn't interpret them, but the tag was still on. But its host was dead. There was a very strong odor of decay which escaped from the bag and made her hesitant to open it.

Jabara arrived, looking both tired and curious, noting the two body bags and the bundle sitting in the corner. She moved next to Lonnie, studying the tricorder. "Tagged?" she said.

"With no scar tissue," added Lonnie. "Should we check it with the tag reader?"

Jabara was taking the scissors and carefully cutting open the folded top. "No, it's ripe but we should be able to figure that out." Jabara pulled the shoulders out of the bag. Ice cold, his skin still icy, Walter Vance was home.

Between them, they pulled him out of the bag. It could be used again.

He was naked, thin and bruised and dirty. The body had been frozen not long after death so it wasn't possible to tell how long ago he'd died. But the decay was already evident, and Lonnie wondered if they kept some of their victims frozen so they could space out the torment sent their way.

There was a large swelling on his neck, along with the signs of a recent severe beating. She hadn't done any autopsies before being left alone, but had studied on holographic bodies. But they didn't carry the smell of rotting flesh and the real thing didn't much look like the images on the holograms.

Jabara had assisted both Bashir and Willman. Lonnie hadn't needed to perform one yet, Jem'Hadar inflicted wounds being self evident. She steeled herself against the smell and for once was the assistant.

The assumption that Vance had died of the beating was wrong. The large swelling on his neck had burst and there was massive pooling of blood near the heart. It was incomplete as an autopsy should go, but sufficient. She recorded his cause of death from a burst blood vessel on the report. He was covered with a tattered sheet. Staring at his slight form, she added his death was likely the a result of the beating. The hospital smell was no longer even noticeable, given the state of the body, and she wanted to finish soon.

It was no surprise to find Blanchard in the other bag. But she took a paper and made notes for her file as Jabara did the exam. There had been no abuse. His death had not been from violence but some quiet death. They did not have to know details, but it was as if his body had simply shut down. Jabara pulled her closer, though, noting marks on his skin. "They were treating him, I'd say trying to save his life," she said, puzzled.

Blanchard should have died the year before from the virus, and had never recovered. "The worse cases from Winter were like this, " said Lonnie.

"He just took longer," said Jabara.

She scribbled "complications from the virus prevalent in Winter of the year before", and kept it at that. But curious, she scanned the tag. It showed scar damage, as if it had been left to heal. It didn't make sense. Vance had been beaten to death, but healed. She added a note to her file.

Someday it might mean something. Or not. But they had spent too much time on the bodies already.

Jabara left to relieve an orderly to remove them. Lonnie pulled the bundle over near the small table for supplies at the back. After the bodies were gone, they shut the door and let the ventilation clear the room, Lonnie hoping the rest they got had just died. The bundle was moved to her office.

She had been looking forward to breakfast but was willing to wait a bit now. But the paperwork still had to be done. Jabara moved the bundle to where it could be emptied first.

It was full of clothes. There was a note included, indicating that four had died in custody and the rest were deported. They began pulling out the clothes, sorting them together. They assumed that the civilian clothes were from Vance. A sleeping gown must have been from Blanchard. But there were clothes from six others, and they were all staff. A small box contained the combined personal effects of the eight missing.

One of them was Bashir's. His jacket had dried blood on it, where he'd fallen on the body, but no other marks. The others had blood spatters, but no wounds. The clothes were bundled together to be washed eventually and saved. Jabara stuffed them back in the container while Lonnie studied the note again.

So this was a game, she thought. Four of these people were dead. One of them might have been Julian, but there was no way to know. Dead or deported, they were gone. She'd already used too much of her day on the dead, and now she had to get back to the living. A whole family had been admitted, sick from eating some plant. A couple of cases were infecting and nothing would work. She would have to experiment. And she needed to wash up and eat and get her paperwork done. She did not know how yet, but she could help the family and they must identify what they'd eaten so nobody else would. For the others, even Julian, there was no help she could provide. There was no grief; in fact, she felt nothing. At least she had not had to sit helpless while they died.

She put the note and her oddities in the drawer. Jabara had returned with breakfast. She sat the paperwork to the side to complete while she ate, wondering if there would ever be answers to the growing collection of questions she was accumulating in her file. Perhaps tomorrow, but that was too far away to think about now. Starting her day, she only hoped that there would be one better than this.

o0o

Straightening the jacket, the tan one he'd worn the year before as official staff, Michael noticed how it looked too loose now. It would be better left open, but O'Brien had worn one when he came in the day before and had worn it buttoned. His new pin was fastened in the proper place as well. It had been a week since Dax had fallen and so much had changed. Every day, she had taken time for a walk, and talked to *her* people. She understood just how much it mattered. But O'Brien rarely emerged past the office or the food service area, unless he had to see the Vorta, and always vanished after that. Glebaroun was taking a close interest. Michael understood that so long as the Vorta was playing, there was a reason to take care with them. But they needed to see O'Brien too, even if it was just to get his meals with them. But he didn't even do that, eating alone in his quarters, breaking their own rules.

So Michael now made a daily round of the residents, there to listen to problems and answer what questions he could. The problems were more than he expected, a sign they trusted him, and his own answers few. O'Brien didn't say much and he wasn't willing to lie. They needed honesty and when he had an answer could trust him. With Carl now staying in the office if he could, and all the new changes, Michael was fulfilling the role he'd never needed to with Dax, as the second in command in case of an emergency, but now with O'Brien's chosen isolation, Michael was in essence the man who kept watch on Residential.

He'd take off the jacket for that, at least for now, but unlike the new official policy on the pin, the one applying to the jacket was, he thought, one of example. Or maybe Miles didn't feel right not dressed for authority. But their day by day life before was clearly over. For her it had been enough to expect good behavior. For O'Brien, there would have to be rules.

He'd been called in early to talk about it. Apparently Jackson wasn't invited. Shandra had started subbing for him with the food crew when he was busy, and he suspected she should plan on a lot of days working from now on.

Checking the pin was right, he pulled down the loose coat again. He'd almost left it. Their new boss wasn't going to ask advice, it was plain, but just the same a hint would be useful about where he was doing it wrong.

Just before he entered, he unbuttoned his coat. If any comment was made he wondered if he'd claim it didn't fit, or that it represented everything which was wrong. Of course, he knew that he was still replaceable.

But not a word was said about the coat, though O'Brien clearly noticed. He handed Michael a list and ask for comment. Sitting, putting his own notes to the side, he read over the list. It was a list of rules and official policy in Residential. But it wasn't going to work other than to erase the line between them and the Vorta. He laid it down on the table, looking up. "I understand the need for overall rules, but a lot of it we don't need now, and a lot we can't even anticipate."

"We still need some rules. And he feels very uneasy about it, and we don't want that. It just gives him reason to use the Jem'Hadar to make sure things are not getting out of hand." Michael tried not to react, but guessed he could tell. "How did Dax handle it then?" he asked, with the same tired, resigned tone.

Reminding himself how much they needed O'Brien to let them handle things, he was calm. "She didn't. She took the walk every day, and stopped and spoke to people. They can see the Jem'Hadar. They know what happens if something goes wrong. They need to see their own leadership too."

He thought he should have added a 'sir' but Miles didn't seem to notice. "I think if they are used to seeing you, it should stay that way. I guess she could pretend. I just don't know how." He stared at the stack of papers. "Like last year, minute tracking of everything, but I bet they check every single number and balance every total. Nothings really changed except it looks honest now with the guards in front of them." But he picked up the paper. "I don't know why, but he's worried about something else. Or someone. Or maybe he's been here before and knows. But he wants to see internal policies and someone making sure they're known and will be enforced." He paused, looking over Michael. "I think since people know you and you're more steady than Jackson, that's your job. But he needs something on paper."

Michael looked up at him, surprised. He wore the pin since he had to. He wore the jacket since it was expected. But he didn't want to have to do that job. "I oversee supplies and food, and the prep of it. The food's simple, but we keep watch for cheating. And we keep an even closer watch on supplies." He wanted to say that if he was to supervise the rest he'd be doing O'Brien's job too. Except for the audiences with the Vorta, of course.

Right then, he missed Dax very much, but most of all, the calm. Even if it wasn't real it made it easier to believe this would end.

"Maybe we should expand your job then. She trusted you. So do I." He stared at the list and the paperwork. "Mr. Emery," said Miles grimly, "I walk across the bridge and wonder what they're doing to our own there. I have to sit there and cooperate with him. And I don't know what it is but he's very worried about something, maybe even scared. And he knows how these kind of things can go very bad and why we don't want this to. I won't pretend I can even guess why, but somehow it's just as important for him that this time things go smoothly as it is for us."

Michael waited, but so long as he didn't have to see the Vorta he'd find a way to manage. "Nobody wants things to go bad here either," he said quietly.

"No, they don't. And I have personal responsibility for the paperwork, so I don't have time. But since you understand the *problem* now, it's your job to make sure it doesn't. You have authority to set *any* policy you think is needed to keep things under control. You can write it out or not, just be consistent. And if it's not kept under control, you share the responsibility as well. Do you understand that?"

Michael simply said yes. But he picked up the paper again, reading it over. "We actually have the authority to do any of this, Sir?"

"Yes we do. He authorized them. Especially that last one, 'other means if necessary'. He needs us. My guess is, my feeling is, we need him right now too."

Michael couldn't deny the world they'd fallen into. If she'd lived, would it have come to this, he wondered. Would just her walks have held them all in check long enough? Would she have have cut rations, as the list permitted, to enforce the rules? But they'd never know, and O'Brien wasn't her, and now it was up to him to decide.

"Nobody wants to see anyone else be shot, or even the results," he said. "If it's what I have to do, then it is." Debating a little, he added his worry over Carl. "And Jackson, keep him with you. He'll do fine with forms. But I'm not so sure about people."

O'Brien didn't take his eyes off of Michael. "What happened?"

"She didn't say. She just kept him out of trouble."

The stare continued, but it was mostly true. And she was dead now so he couldn't ask for permission to tell. "Then I'll take your word," said his superior, he thought, because that was the proper word now.

He was handed a form. It was a list of all persons, their family, and residences, and their ages, especially the children. He was to verify it. Remembering how they'd used children as hostages in the rumors leaked before, thinking of Tasha, he looked away. "Just don't show this to Jackson," he suggested.

"No, I won't." Michael looked up, as O'Brien said quietly. "He needs that by tomorrow. I was going to assign Jackson. But I'd like to know why he shouldn't see it."

He hesitated. "You know about his daughter, Sir,"

O'Brien closed his eyes, somewhere else for a moment. Of course somewhere on Bajor his wife and young children had been left behind. In a moment he opened his eyes, looking like he was watching someone else in the room. "Good point. I'll be sure to keep him in today, but get it done." He paused, watching Michael closely. "Did he hurt anyone?"

"No. She was afraid he might. He blamed his wife for the girl running."

If he replaced Carl now it might be better for all of them, even Carl.

"And he didn't take it out on her since she stopped him. Is that how it went?"

Michael just quietly said yes, feeling as if he'd betrayed a trust.

"Then he'll have lots of work to do here and we'll keep him in view. We can't risk any violence, even the hint of it." He studied Michael. "And don't lie to me again."

She was dead. She'd tried an experiment that worked only as long as she was there to inspire it. But now the days of light were gone, and they'd live in the same grey and murky place, he guessed. "I won't, Sir."

"And if there's anything you'd call a concern, someone close to violence, for instance, you tell me. It won't go on a report, least nothing official, but if you want this to end some day it goes like that."

"I will, Sir." He wanted him to know how she'd made them believe it would end, and she'd be there to make the world which came after. He needed to tell him that without that little bit of hope, that inspiration, it was already all over. But it already was for him.

"And you jacket should be buttoned."

"I doesn't fit," he said. "It just reminds me and will everyone about the half of a diet."

"True. Take it off for now when your doing your assignment. Maybe we can find someone who sews and take them in. In the office you wear it so we remember."

"I should leave it here, then," he said, transferring the pin to his shirt.

The sky was clear so there wasn't likely to be rain, and he was already thinking of the simple rules they'd be told. He wasn't going to have a big meeting, but would group people together and explain. He was also thinking of the space near prep where they might put up a play area for the small kids until the deck above was again available. They'd know he meant the rules, but if they had nothing to lose, there wouldn't be much reason to care, either.

But as he left the office, retrieving his other jacket in case it cooled off, he realized that before life had been drifting in a fog, and now the reality would be undeniable, but if the Vorta was scared, they all had good reason to be, and sometimes there were dark places you just had to march through towards sunshine.

And he was sure, someway, sunshine was still out there waiting.

o0o

There were twelve pebbles on the ledge when they came. Bashir had finished the last of the softened cake and was almost asleep when the door creaked open and he was yanked to his feet and pulled into the corridor.

He was blindfolded. The light hurt his eyes and he closed them tightly as they tied the swath behind his head.

His hands were tied. He didn't try to resist. He just wanted it over and back in his box where he could dream.

He suspected it was the same room with the same chair. Straps held him in place, thought he was in no danger of trying to run. He thought he might fall on his own if they had not strapped him to the chair.

The Vorta didn't waste any time.

"Doctor, you have put me in a difficult position. You must know I don't want to send you back to the internment camp. I've tried to make that quite plain. I've given you opportunities to be rewarded for your cooperation. But I must have something from you soon. I cannot shield you from deportation forever."

Bashir was afraid. It disgusted him to even allow the Vorta to see the fear, but it was real. He didn't want to go back there either, but would not make deals with murders to save himself.

At least with the blindfold, he didn't have to look the bastard in the face. He was being shielded for some reason, and he feared it would eventually be his only option if he wanted to live, and have the chance to carry out his life's mission.

Glebaroun was only one Vorta. He didn't control more than his share. The Dominion had lots of rules, and if Glebaroun couldn't show some kind of result he would have to let him go.

It made him a powerless pawn in the game. But it made him important, too. He could still deny the creature. With the pasta, he had shown he did not control his prisoner, and could be denied.

Glebaroun could no longer temp him into cooperation.

He stayed still and said nothing. It was almost satisfying to hear the slight annoyance in the voice which none the less still tempted his resolve.

"Doctor, I don't care if you destroy yourself, but I think you should know what has happened to that camp you were in. You remember it as bad, but it was nothing like it is now. There are twice as many prisoners. You had, what, six in your barracks? Now imagine it with at least a dozen. No room to move, not even accidental privacy. There was an epidemic a month ago that killed half the prisoners, something that comes from overcrowding. The guards are far more direct, and more than Klingons are used for training now. I believe you know what happens to trouble makers. Long before any of that, you will be punished for the escape. If you survive that you may discover how dismal the place has become. And you will most assuredly die there. Perhaps sooner, or later, but it won't change the end. Now, Doctor, do you really want to end up there? All you need to do is cooperate a little and I can claim you as my prisoner and they can't touch you. It is your choice."

Bashir was grateful for the blindfold. The Vorta didn't see the fear in his eyes. Glebaroun had no reason to lie. Martok had told them how things had steadily worsened over the two years he'd been imprisoned there. There was no reason to believe it would be any different now.

The Vorta would play his games. For a little useless information he'd be spared the extended death the internment camp had become. The revenge he drew his life from would be possible then.

But the monster would win. There would be a cost. He might even go home if he cooperated well enough.

Could he? Could he stand to live the lie even for revenge?

Not today. Maybe later he'd break, but the Vorta wasn't desperate enough yet to do more than ask. It would be allowing him too easy a win.

"I repeat," he said in a rough, faltering voice. "I will not betray anyone."

"Then there is nothing I can do for you," said the Vorta, "but I suspect you will regret your choice in the end."

He could still change his mind. The Vorta didn't sound like he was done. He would get his revenge that way. Would it be worth the price?

The Vorta stood and started to leave, then came back. This time he didn't sit but came very close.

"There is another way. It isn't strictly necessary but to end it all you need is to tell your interrogator something, even something trivial you know. There is an old human expression. The carrot and the stick. It's your choice." He paused, as if he was waiting for something to be said. "You'll be left here for a time. Think about it. The room in monitored. Just give me some bit of information and you are safe. I have tried the carrot. Next is the stick."

Bashir was breathing harder, remembering the dead Cardassian and the prods. He did not know if he could stay silent. They wouldn't kill him. They would make sure he was alive for the next session. In the end, if he could stop himself from talking, they would either kill him or send him to die at 371.

He said nothing. He held onto the vision of the nurse and the ag man and the blood and the taste of the pasta which forever would symbolize control, not joy.

The Vorta left the room. They left him there a long time, past rations he thought, until they carried him back and dumped him in his cell. The door slid shut. He lay near the chute, finding the ration that had come without him and soaking it, then eating it slowly, listening for any sound that warned of their coming for him.

When he slept Garak died again. And the Cardassian. And when the Vorta died, he did not die so quickly or easily now. As days went past, the food more scarce and the fear growing stronger, the Vorta grew to know fear as well and now, he begged to die.

o0o

Michael felt as if he was lost in a nightmare, but he was wide awake. So was the group who had lied about their information on the list. He'd ordered them to stay outside while the rest went back in their doors. He'd chosen to wear the tan coat anyway, knowing there were going to be those who balked, given the fears, and knowing that would be just the reason for them to come true.

He had brought Dax's list, where she'd added the approximate ages when she was figuring how to divide the food. The first family had not mentioned the baby. She had been noted as very pregnant. The second had said their son was ten, where he was two. There was a rumor that small children were stolen to be sold somewhere else. He'd been busy since the armed and visible occupation had begun. He hadn't been sitting in his house imagining all sorts of horrible ideas. He reminded himself most of them had, but also knew it could never be accepted as a reason to lie.

Those who had, with their children, were told to wait near an empty spot where it flooded too often to build. He'd recruited reluctant staff to keep an eye on them. All were to come later, after he'd finished his personal talk.

It was as if someone else had invaded his head, but with calm certainty that this was the only option that they had.

"Each one of you lied," he said. "I know you're nervous. I know about the baby snatching rumor. It's just that, nothing else. When the first survey was done, we had to estimate the ages since we didn't ask. But we need to know how many supplies we should get, and if there is a real need, if we should ask for more. That's why we have to know."

They'd all told after he confronted him, surprised by this Michael they'd never met. Or, perhaps, one he'd never met either. He just stared at them, letting out the deep disappointment he felt. Or some part of him did. It wasn't that he trusted the Vorta or any of the humans who were occasionally with him. But the chances were too low of anything but disaster.

He watched while they slunk together, worried now. It occurred to him that one of Sisko's final threats had been anyone caught with contraband be immediately surrendered. They were scared. He didn't know what he intended, but he wasn't sure scared was the right word.

"We need people to do clean up after food prep. It's done at night, and you won't be alone. One adult may remain with your children but the other will report on time after each meal to work. Which one is your choice, but the one who told the lie must work more than half the time. And if we have further trouble, you'll not be allowed outside your quarters and your food will be supplied. Is that clear? Does anyone have a question?"

They just looked stunned. He realized that he'd worked with his own crew most of the time, and when he wasn't it was something they appreciated. They'd never seen this Michael.

Some of his crew had, thought. In private. They wouldn't be surprised. But right then, the Michael that kept them fed and made sure meals were the best they could be was less important than the one that expected things to be done as they were supposed to be.

He told them to sit. The others were told to come and he explained the most basic of rules, and what happened if they were broken to complete silence, and he was sure they believed him since he meant every word.

o0o

Miles hadn't taken the time to survey the upper deck yet, still unoccupied by other than mud and here and there the beginning of patches of moss, each of those carefully marked off. The stunning reversal of his fate had made him wary of everything, and he watched them all. So would the Vorta. Then he was so buried in the paperwork, wondering how Jadzia had managed to find time for anything else.

But it hadn't rained that day, and he wanted to see how much moss looked like it would grow and most of all, just wanted to be alone. A few of the marking crew were there, but he doubled they'd come close. After the immediate shock, he'd gone back to his training. Formally organizing his staff, Miles had necessarily cut himself off from the honor Jadzia was still held, but had trapped those she had promised would never have to wear a pin. Resented, he had found his endless piles of paper almost a respite. But it was the only way he knew to do the job. They could eat without inspiration but the only way he'd impress the Vorta was with the quality of his work.

He stood looking over the drying mud and the rivulets of water softening the hard sand when one of the markers came up to him.

"Looks like we'll get a lot of it the way it spreads. That's real good, even if it shuts this end for a while."

"Good, I needed that information," he said. The man was one of the offworld 'security' team which had 'recruited' Mac last year, and he now felt uneasy. Next time, he'd check when nobody else was around.

The man came closer. "Too bad they didn't pick you first to represent them. She never really did." Miles wanted to just leave, but knew better now. "Of course you have a family. Though, the Vorta did have a reason to try and no doubt before she thought she should slip away would have found herself caught. Just like you are already."

Miles didn't like the look or the sentiments. "From what I hear, she was an inspiration. All I do is push paper and make people wear pins." He moved a little more distant from view, the man following. "And you seem to know entirely too much."

The man still seemed to any observer to be looking at mud and moss. "You wonder why a Vorta would be so nervous he'd make deals with his prisoners? Why he's even trying to do it with you? Ever wonder what scares him?"

Annoyed that the conversation was becoming interesting, he said simply, "Probably the teraforming experiment. They got so far along without being stopped. I wonder why."

"Of course he wanted it to go on. But we both know Blanchard will still die. It won't help if they didn't leave good notes either. But that's not why, not entirely. You think with all the territory they took and all the prisoners they hold they don't appreciate a little help?"

Miles was sure he needed to know, but not that he wanted to. It did make sense, however. "So what are you, the official collaborators?"

Miles watched his reaction, knowing how most would react to the word. "That is what they believe, or did. Not that we were ever trusted completely. Now that they more than suspect, but we just didn't sound important enough for them for way too long."

Knowing he couldn't give anything away, not wishing to be in the middle of what he knew was a power struggle somewhere if any of it was true, he moved towards the next concentration of mud. "And now you've got some of them scared? Like ours?" he asked.

"Something like that. But just because I came here to clean up a problem, and I'm still here in the midst of this mess, doesn't mean I don't have ways to get information or send it. For instance, your family. I should be getting news of them soon. I'd love to share it with you. But only if you'll be willing the share the risk."

Miles thought of the pin he wore, the uniform, the forms, the title, and how she'd feel about all of that. But he needed to know. "How? And what can you do for me?" he asked.

"We see the reports, but there's a lot more that's never transmitted. They don't care how people are coping with this three act play, but we do. We need to know little things, rumors, suspicions, things that are irregular especially. I'm identified as theirs, so they don't talk to me. I'm sure you could do that since you get a private report of that all ready."

Not sure if he believed it or not, it still annoyed him that the report had been mentioned. It wasn't commonly known. But the Vorta did know and wasn't interested. He himself had to know how things were going to gage his options. "And what do I get out of it?" he asked.

"Word of your family, for now. Later far more than word. But then *he* already has that idea. And when he loses, it would be good to have been cooperative before you have to be."

So, if this revolution really happened, it wasn't going to really change anything. If it was run by human sorts, he knew enough of his own history to be very wary of such inspirations. But it might not hurt to find out more. He considered. The next report was due in a few days. "I'll come up here in three days, same as now. I'll bring a copy. And you have something to tell me."

"No, your packet, you'll get a special folder. Put it in there. I'll just tell you now they're alive. On Bajor. After we'll see if you send it and if your double dealing." He showed Miles a name, and hid it, the recipient of the folder. If anything happened to them they'd assume he told.

But the man went back to marking, and Miles slowly made his way back to the office where he now would have to wonder who else 'we' included, and if he could pretend, that he might know the most tempting secret of them all, even if buried inside it was another nightmare waiting to come to life.

o0o

Carl was staring at him, O'Brien looking over the list. It would be posted in the morning. He had been firm and absolute with the rest of his audience. They would not lie. They would give information when asked, for if it was there was a good reason. There would be no stealing, not from supply or each other. If there was a dispute, he would listen to both sides and mediate, but it would be settled.

They had no room for trouble. They were not going to provide a reason for more examples.

He'd just been silent after that one. They all understood. He saw them glace up the deck, still muddy and being marked out for the moss.

Then he'd explained the basic penalties. They'd trooped silently back to home with much to think about after that. But O'Brien was sure the Vorta was just as scared, and if they were good, they'd probably be rewarded. And they did not need to become a player in his little private war since they were guarantee to lose.

"It looks good. We'll post it tomorrow. And if there is trouble, you're the one to deal with it," said his boss.

He didn't want to. He wanted to be the Michael they all liked, the one that made sure their food was hot and cooked and on time. The one they liked to be around. But that day, he knew, he'd changed that. He didn't know if it could ever be made to go back how it had been. But if it worked, they'd all have a chance to find out.

"I'd like to hold some of the others back, not use them unless we have to," he said.

"You probably will," said Carl, his voice almost shaking. "They'll get used to these and decide to try anyway."

"Then we up the ante," said Michael. "All the way up to cutting their ration." He thought to himself by then nobody would be able to tell the difference between them and the Vorta.

"If we're lucky we never have to go that far," said O'Brien. "But then I think Carl's probably right."

The worse part was he agreed with Miles, and the look in Carl's eyes, as if he was looking forward to that day.

o0o

Still feeling a little numb, Michael watched as Shandra came to bed, Tasha finally asleep. "She missed me a lot," she said. "I'll have plenty of time to spend with her with the crew knowing what to do, though. I'm guessing that I'll be busy in the morning from now on."

She was watching him. He was still adjusting to his 'promotion' and the way he was watched now and didn't really want the reminder. "I guess. I have a meeting in the morning so I assume I got officially promoted now."

"They're just getting used to it now," she said, yawning. "But they'll adjust. Looks like you have already."

He had been trying to define things all evening, but he felt different than he had other evenings. The usual feeling of relief that the day was over was there, but somehow, there had been some point to it this time. "I didn't get asked if I wanted the job, but," he said, not sure where to go from there. It was so hard to define. "I guess today feels like it stood for something."

She slid into bed, pulling up the blanket. "Some more than others. Dinner got washed up real fast this time."

"No, it's not that. It just meant something. Not sure I like what, but I like that it did."

"Well, you need to be there before we get started with prep. I can't sign for the shipment."

He was watching her, as if she had a surprise. He just wanted some quiet. "We aren't scheduled for one."

"We got word very late. The office was closed already. Our pixie friend with the ears. He is sending us more of the fruit. Every couple days, I guess. You'll have to sign tomorrow, but once you set me up, I can."

He was looking at her now, curious. "That's odd."

"But this way you can tell who the reward is for. And I don't know why, but I don't suppose if he wasn't worried about something he'd be so generous. We hear things too, Michael."

He said nothing at first, but as she got comfortable, he shut off the light. "So do I."

"If he has reason to be scared, you know why. O'Brien would have told you. But I'll bet you more of us like the idea of surviving this than not. And they'll stand with you. Whatever has changed, that never will. And I'm proud of you."

He finally move down, under the covers and let her hold him. "Thing is," he said softly, "I don't know who I am anymore."

"Who someone needs to be right now," she whispered, and he settled against her, wishing more than ever that it wasn't him.

End, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 8


	10. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 9

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 9

Miles watched the little boy as he played, a study in concentration. He lined up the blocks with the letters, over and over, hardly moving from where he sat, piling the blocks into piles and methodically taking them down. He was quiet, too quiet. He kept looking up towards the door every time he heard a voice. He had not said a word since Jackson had left to prepare for the distribution of the next days food. Even then, he had hardly interrupted his methodical game with the blocks.

Little Calla had taken sick that day, suddenly becoming very ill. Small children were permitted one parent accompanying them to the hospital, and Jackson's wife had already left when young Jeffery was brought into the office by a friend. Jackson was worried, but there was nothing he could do. Miles hoped the mind numbing task of counting out the next days rations would at least give him something else to dwell on.

Miles moved a pile of papers to the side of his desk, knocking over a small box of pens which spilled on the floor. It distracted Jeffery, and his elbow knocked a tall pile of blocks down. He sat looking at them, then the pens. He stood up, coming towards the desk, and silently began picking up the pens. He held them out towards Miles, waiting. Miles smiled at the child, thanking him and taking them. The boy nodded, still silent, and retreated to the blocks, picking them up in the same mechanical way. Sitting, he started to pile them again, the only sound the little clinks the blocks made as he laid them in piles of the same size, never taking his eyes off the fence he was building around himself.

Miles stared at the reports and forms and tried to get his mind on them. He spent most of his time on reports. It had been less than a week since he had been forced into this role, and he wondered how Jadzia had managed. Jackson and Emery did almost all the physical management of the supplies since only Miles had authority to do the paperwork, and it left little time for anything else. But now, he couldn't take his eyes off the small, silent boy and the disturbing thoughts in his mind.

Molly was near his age. If Molly was alive, if any of them were alive, they were on Bajor, and he didn't want to know the sort of conditions they lived in. He remembered the way Molly liked to pile things as high as she could and then scatter them, trying to see how far she could make them roll. He could hear her giggle as she played. He wondered if she played as little Jeffery did, quietly and mechanically, her childhood forever changed. He still believed that his family was alive, but he knew it was only because he could not stand to believe otherwise.

It was getting late, and lunch was due soon. Jeffery had finally tired of the blocks, and put them into their box. Miles fished around for a piece of scrap paper and a pen. "Jeffery, would you like to draw a picture?" he asked.

The boy hesitantly approached. Miles pushed back his chair and made room for the boy to draw on his desk. Eventually, Jeffery climbed into his lap and took the pen.

Miles forgot the reports as he watched Jeffrey draw. The boy drew a child, small, with the wavy hair of his sister. She was smiling, dressed as a princess. There was a monster, with huge teeth and feet, in the corner. And between the child and the monster was another figure, tall and strong, holding a sword, keeping her safe. His voice small and scared, Jeffery finally asked, "Will they make her better?"

Miles didn't know what his father had said, but he didn't want to lie. "They'll do their best. You have to be strong for her," he said gently, almost surprised that he remembered how.

"I love her. Mommy made me come here. I always stay with her." The anxiety was building to tears.

"Your mommy will be there. She'll take care of her." Miles put his arms around the boy, snuggling him as the tears came. Jeffery cried quietly, and Miles stroked his hair. After a little while, the quiet sobs slowed, then stopped, and Jeffery fell asleep, his hands tangled around Miles arm.

Miles shifted his weight so Jeffrey would be comfortable. He stared at the reports but didn't see them. E'Char was sitting in the chair across from his desk, wearing a blissful smile. Miles closed his eyes, seeing the little girl he missed so much in his arms.

A while later, Miles still held the sleeping child when Emery knocked quietly and came in. Miles shushed him and Emery spoke in a whisper. "Sir, we heard she's going to be okay, thought they want to keep her a few days."

Emery must have noticed the lost look in his boss's eyes but kept quiet. "Tell Jackson to go home early after the supplies are taken care of. Somebody here needs him."

Emery nodded, "I will, Sir. We should be done in an hour or so. Would you be more comfortable with him on the couch?"

Miles sighed. "No, we're fine. I can do that later," he said waving at the papers.

Miles saw the grief in Emery's eyes. His child was on Earth, and he had taken in another that was here. But Miles couldn't do that. Emery would never see his wife again, but if Miles O'Brien behaved he knew that some day he might reclaim his own.

His assistant had backed towards the door, making a bigger space between the child he must have seen as his own and the reality he had to live with. "I have to finish with rations," he said rather desperately.

"Go. We'll be fine."

Emery escaped the room, a trace of tears in his eyes. Miles stroked the boys hair and hoped they didn't hurry. For a little while he could remember, and dream of the day the boy in his arms might be his own.

o0o

The last time there had been an 'accident', Marka had been watching the children. She had been on a long distance site and slept the whole way home, arriving to panic and relief barely covered long enough to get to the privacy of their quarters. But a transport had turned over and most were either injured or killed. The injured had died later, waiting to be brought back. Since the blacksuits had come to run the work, so much had changed.

They still shared a "job" per household, largely women with children now that the men had mostly been removed on a long term project to a different camp. One stayed and watched the children and the other worked, trading off days. They were "paid" in the chewy ration cakes they normally did not get, which supplemented the meager diet that was the norm. Technically it was still an Internment camp over a CA run work camp so they were fed by different rules, though life as it had been with their small but functional council had already vanished. Now, the only rules were those imposed by CA and while the governing council existed, it just did as told now.

Earlier in the day, a transport had returned early. There had been another accident, the injured taken to a medical unit and the transport brought back for repairs. There was no accounting of victims. They would have to wait and see who didn't come home.

Being near spring, the days ran late and the families were crowded into the central room where they ate, sitting silently and waiting. Molly and Pashe were sitting, staring at the door. The younger children were afraid, but sat huddled next to Keiko. It had been hours since dinner but only those working close by had returned. The room remained utterly silent.

It was doubtful that they even recorded the victims. But they would take a count since the remaining half of the household would now be indebted to work daily and pay with their rations for someone else to care for little ones. Nobody lasted long that way.

Since the last accident and their relief at all being alive, they had just slept in the main room of their quarters, children cuddled between them so they would feel some comfort. So much had changed so swiftly. The men had been taken, though they still occasionally were able to write. Even if letters were read, and there was nothing personal, they were treasured. She had been told her husband was alive and on one of the dirt farms and wore a uniform. She could have written but would not. He had destroyed any connection when he became a blacksuit.

The ones is grey, now including their own council, were administrators. The ones in black enforced the rules. The rules came in a book and not even the blacksuit commanders could make their own. There had been an execution the month before, two guards shot and buried alive, for having dealings with the smugglers. It had been very public. Normally anyone touched by the black-market was simply executed and left to rot but this had been a message to their own to keep hands off.

It was common knowledge that it wasn't working. When they closed down the camp, they'd purge the unit too. Some would end up marked as underslaves to the slaves as punishment and a visible warning to everyone else.

The first returning were dribbling in. They waited by the door, showing no expression, and stood until their families came and they left together. Everyone knew then. It was a bad one. She wondered what thoughts had gone through Marka's mind before, faced with exhaustion and hunger if Keiko had not come home.

The black-market was very active. It was easy with a shipping point for the ration cakes so close by. Even the CA Security crews were rotated monthly. Workers were rotated every two weeks. Large quantities continued to disappear. Those who had only one adult and not enough food would eventually find themselves deported to one of the slave camps they had already built where their little hellhole would look good so there was little reason *not* to get involved and be able to eat.

Guards entered, counting who was waiting. As they left, an influx of those returning found their families, some not able to hide the relief, and in time they all disappeared. Molly was standing, eyes fixed on the door. Pashe sat, holding her as if keeping her from harm. They were children in some other world, but not this one.

When they were all gone, the blacksuit entered, standing before them. He explained. That was unusual but then he must know his unit was slated for the same fate as them so maybe he was feeling a little empathy. A transport had flipped on a bad road. They had asked for new vehicles since the ones they had were dangerous, but had been ignored. Many were injured, and some would recover. He read off names. Marka was not one of them.

They lined up as ordered for the "pay". It had been decided that the families would receive full quotas even thought the working partner never reached the job. The driver and several blacksuits had been killed as well and had families there who now had no place to go so maybe they were feeling generous.

Herding her five children out the door, she made it to their door before the anger surfaced. She sent the children in one of the back rooms, the oldest watching. By tomorrow, and it was very late, someone besides the two small children would have to be there to watch them.

Te'Salle was waiting for her. The older Vulcan woman had difficultly walking. Her husband had remained, and worked daily since her roommate had vanished. She would have been of no use now, except she watched. The four Bajorian children who were now hers were joined by many now and she had a room to work in. Parents paid one ration cube per two children. They were used in part to feed them, but she took a cut too. Vulcans had fit in very well into the stark and absolute system which ruled their lives now.

She gave the woman two cakes. She'd give three the next day to make up for the difference. There was very little sign of reaction on the older woman's face except in the eyes. She was shocked and saddened and afraid just like everyone else.

Then Keiko went home to her new family. They were huddled together in the corner of the room. Most of them. Pashe sat by himself, rage in his eyes. Molly looked at her, a small suggestion of fear but anger too. Marka was not her mother, but she knew her mother could disappear one day too, and they'd go to the Children's Camp and never leave.

Teane, three and understanding more than the little ones, kept saying "Mama" over and over again. She held the girl, trying to comfort her but there was no comfort for her dawning awareness anymore.

Pashe had had enough and came to his sister, staring at her. "Mama's dead," he said. "They killed her. Be quiet." Then he stomped off, the rage bubbling out but kept just under control, and sat by himself.

Molly had come to sit by her. "Don't die, Mommy," she said.

Keiko wished she had an answer, but didn't. If the next day another transport flipped, or the embankment collapsed at the site, she couldn't stop any of it. "I'll try not to."

But Molly just stared at Pashe, then moved away, the two huddling together. They knew food would be hard now. They knew they were on borrowed time and knew what the only way to stop it from being that way that was open to them too.

She couldn't prevent them. She wouldn't be there and Te'Salle wouldn't try.

Lost in emptiness, Keiko dragged the matts together, giving the children Marka's so they might feel a little of her spirit. The bodies would be dumped and disposed of like trash. When she could, she'd find a priest to pray for the spirits release as Marka was a believer. But the day was catching up with them too quickly, and wrapped in blankets and curled together in comforting, Keiko lost the fight with sleep and nightmares and the room became quiet.

o0o

Leeta dragged herself out of bed, rubbing her eyes, trying to get awake. She had been dreaming of her childhood, spent mostly in a crowded and dirty little room with not enough food. She looked around the room she was living in now, with the utilitarian walls and the sparse furnishings, and closed her eyes again. It was as if her life had almost come full circle. This place wasn't so dirty, and there was more room, but there were guards visible from the door and she was sick and hungry.

She pulled herself out of bed, finally, and dressed. Rom and Nog were not fond of the cakes, but food was food. She shared meals with them. Sometimes, though, they preferred the cakes alone, just softened in a bit of water.

She picked up the single ration cube they'd saved for lunch, soaking it in the water. It was as close to the food of home as they could manage. The rest of the day they ate the soup, but for lunch she soaked a single cake for them to split. Rom would bring her lunch and they'd take a little private time.

She knew it was breaking the rules. But O'Brien had come by a little less than a week before to see them. She'd immediately noticed the little round tab he once again wore on his shirt. So had Dax, but somehow nobody had noticed it on her, and she hadn't made anyone else.

He'd taken them away to go for a walk, and came back looking satisfied. Nobody had asked her if she minded that Rom was once again working for the enemy.

They'd been gone most of the time since then. She knew O'Brien needed those he could trust, so she'd kept her distaste for the job to herself.

Nog was up early each day now. He dressed and took an early breakfast. She didn't see much of him until he came in just before curfew.

Rom kept shorter hours. He always shared meals with her. He did something in the office, though she didn't ask what. But she was used to his company. The day was too long without it.

She didn't have much to do. Nobody did more than they had to. With the sickness and the hunger, no one had the energy for more.

She wished O'Brien hadn't come that day. It wasn't just the empty hours. It was the pin he wore, and now Rom and Nog as well.

Dax hadn't asked anyone else to wear one. They were volunteers, and didn't have any official titles. Their loyalty was to the others around them that had it a little easier because food was managed by themselves, or some other part of life they still controlled.. But O'Brien had changed that. Nog was officially head of supply security. Rom worked directly with O'Brien which meant he did paperwork and carried out Their orders. When they hadn't seen people murdered and there was no blue line most of them didn't see it that way. She had never quite been able to forget, but there was distance. Now, everyone else was learning the lesson she did in her childhood..

Last year, the Dominion had been somewhere above them. Now, every night she went to sleep still hungry and every dream she had of childhood made her hate Them more. And the little pin that O'Brien wore made him belong to Them. She didn't really hate him, but there was a wall there and she could not open the gate.

And Rom wore a pin, too. He'd noticed how distant she was but she'd let him think it was from the sickness. He wanted her to go to the hospital, but she'd refused. She wasn't that sick. Others were worse off than her.

But the real reason was that she didn't want to be trapped there. Everyone knew someone who'd gone and never come back. They knew of the horrible conditions–the stench, the crowding and most of all the persistent dull gloom that pervaded the staff's mood. She liked to pretend that this place with its line of death and guards balanced by decent food and the sunlight was the worse it would get. The hospital was all the memories of her childhood combined and she didn't want to think of this place as come that far so quickly.

Nog also wore a pin. She didn't say much to him in the brief time he spent there. Most of the time he was asleep, but in the mornings he sometimes caught her watching while he attached his pin to his shirt.

He'd only spoken a few times, but he didn't call her Moogie anymore. Now all he called her was Leeta. She wondered when he'd start addressing her as wife of Rom.

When he was dressed for work, it hard to speak to Rom now. He worked closely with O'Brien. Rom mentioned him all the time. She didn't comment, but she wished he and his pin to be kept away from the only home she had left.

That way she could pretend that life hadn't come full circle. There was no armed resistance here, but she knew that O'Brien and his staff wouldn't have lived long on Bajor if they'd been so careless. Here, those who remembered only kept it to themselves because the others didn't understand yet.

But they would. And Rom and Nog would be on the wrong side then. If she stayed with Rom she would be, too.

But she needed him. She had almost lost him already. A minute more of hesitation during the crash and he'd be as dead as Quark. If she left him, she would have no one. Being his wife, no one would have her either. Not now.

She had tried to warn him. But Nog was too busy with his new job, and Rom just looked at her with confusion. She had only hinted so far, but wondered how long it until they found out for themselves.

Exhausted, she went back to bed. Rom was late. The cakes would be too soft but she couldn't help that. She fell asleep as the strength she'd managed faded.

Nog wasn't the most welcome person to wake her. It was the first time since he'd caught her look that she'd been alone with him.

"You look terrible," he said. "Dad wants me to take you to the hospital."

She didn't like being told what to do. And she didn't want anything to do with the hospital. "I'll be fine. I just need some more rest," she said.

"No, Dad's been checking. You're not even getting out of bed. He's busy, but after I eat I'm supposed to bring him his lunch. And then I take you to the hospital."

She wouldn't look at him and rolled away towards the wall. "I don't want to go. You won't tell me what to do."

"Dad wants you to go. I'm taking you," he insisted. "Anyway, the Chief is worried about people not getting help. I already have the pass."

He couldn't possibly miss the look she gave him that time, rolling over to make sure. "And one of the Chief's staff can't serve as a bad example."

Nog was surprised by her tone. She hadn't expected that. But she liked the look on his face.

He did push this time. "Look, Dad is worried. You've been sick too long. He just wants to make sure you'll be all right."

"No." She turned away again. "I won't go just to make you look good." She didn't know why she was so angry at him. Somewhere inside, she knew he wasn't the target, but she couldn't talk to Them that way.

Nog was eating his lunch, hurrying to finish the mushy half-cake. But he looked up, now plainly hurt. "I know what you think," he said, his voice quiet, "about the Chief and the rest of us. He didn't volunteer. But he's trying to do everything he can. So did Dax, but you didn't blame her for doing what she had to. Jackson's little daughter would be dead without her. The Chief has been trying to get permission for a medical team to come here so you wouldn't have to go, but the Vorta won't allow it."

She rolled over to her back, resigned to her fate. He wasn't going to let her decide. "I'll go. Just leave it alone."

But she'd opened up the bottle and couldn't stop it from all pouring out. "I've seen they way you look at Dad. He knows something's wrong. He doesn't understand, but he deserves a real explanation. And from you."

Having spent his venom, Nog finished his lunch while she leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He wrapped up the remaining food and brought her shoes and sweater.

She had rolled onto her side, facing away from him. "I tried to tell him. He didn't understand. It's not personal. It's who you're working for." She sounded tired, but there was still anger too.

"You used to be friends," said Nog.

"Who all of you are working for." She rolled over on her back to look at him, and saw the hurt and the anger left her. "I'll talk to him. But I can't promise I'll feel any different." She sat up and Nog helped her with her shoes then helped her up. She felt dizzy, shook her head and laid down again.

"I'll get someone to help," he said, worried. Taking his father's lunch, he hurried out the door.

She was dozing when he came back, this time with Jackson in tow. He helped her up and supported her weight. She allowed him to help carry her as they headed out towards the gate that led to nightmares.

o0o

Nog stared straight ahead, but not at the guards, as their passes were accepted. The gate opened and he and Jackson stepped past guards and guns back into the relative safety of home.

They kept going until the gate had closed and the guards were minding their own business. Then, both relieved to be well into the dried coat of mud and fuzzy mosses, they stopped to breath.

Behind was one enemy. Nog stared at the clusters of buildings ahead, wishing it didn't feel like different one.

It hadn't been like that with Jadzia. He'd volunteered to help now and then. She'd been gracious and he'd gone home feeling like he'd done some good. Usually, he helped with supplies, counting and inventorying them as they arrived and separating the coming weeks allotment.

Larson couldn't watch all the time so he'd filled in now and then. So it hadn't sounded any different when the Chief had asked him if he'd take an official job.

But it was different for some of them. Leeta wasn't alone in resenting the visible authority his pin gave him.

Maybe, now, if he'd known he'd have insisted on keeping his volunteer status. Larson had, and still lived in the same place and filled the same role. Or, almost. Nog was officially responsible for supplies now that the cooking facilities had been moved to the upper deck.

The mud wasn't so bad now. Rain came and went, but the main floods were over. The sandbags left the year before held the occasional overflow in the channel and the layer of mud was covered in a fuzzy green layer of moss.

But he'd made a promise to the Chief. Right or wrong, he needed titles and official responsibilities. Nog couldn't imagine being left alone in the near dark for so long. If it helped the Chief cope with his new life a little better, Nog would help.

Jackson and the others hadn't said anything, but the pins and sudden organization had effected them, too. He was almost relieved that Leeta had been admitted. Rom could go home without meeting her accusing eyes for a few days. For that matter, so could he.

Jackson hadn't said a word since they'd arrived at the hospital. He'd headed towards the children's ward to see his wife and daughter. Nog hoped the child was doing better.

If a child could recover, then Leeta could. For all he hated seeing her stare, he wanted her to come home.

He decided to break the silence. "How is your daughter? I'm glad you had a chance to see them."

Jackson was preoccupied. "She's a lot better. They should be home in a few days." He stopped, still out of earshot of anyone else, and looked at Nog. "Leeta doesn't like what we're doing. I could tell. I see why Rom has been so bad off."

Nog was uncomfortable with the subject. But Jackson had a wife and he wondered if she had felt the same way. "How did your wife feel?"

Jackson wore a distant, almost cold face. "She didn't say anything." Then he paused, his face unreadable. "She wouldn't." His eyes were haunted but everything else about him was covered in a mask. "Almost losing Calla changed things for us, but we're still . . . different." He sighed, the mask slipping a little.. "You know, Leeta probably has another reason to be upset. She grew up during one of these."

Nog hadn't considered that. He'd held a job the year before and she hadn't felt that way, but then the Jem'Hadar weren't there. "She never mentions it. I don't know if she can." They were walking slowly. "I just want her to talk to my father about it." He paused again, looking at Jackson. "If your wife said she wanted you to quit what would you do?"

Jackson stopped, an icy look in his eyes. "Cheryl wouldn't ask. She knows I have to do this." He paused, the ice melting a little, and Nog suspected he was thinking of the long day when the Jem'Hadar had come, and how his son no longer smiled or played since his sister's near execution. "I tell myself I'm working for them." He waved generally towards the little clumps of buildings on the ledge.

Nog wished he could do that. He was, but could never get Leeta to understand. And if he though of her childhood, he could see the way she and others saw them.

But the Chief had been tormented by them. He'd been locked in a dark box and Nog didn't even notice the odd silences when it was almost as if someone else was in the room.

The Chief didn't want to sit in the chair with the forms to sign. He didn't *choose* to have to serve an enemy that had done so much harm. But sometimes you don't *have* a choice.

He'd told Nog that someone *had* to be in charge of the supplies. Larson would still watch and listen, but other things had to be done to make sure nothing disappeared.

Nog had been flattered to be offered such a responsibility. He still was. How dare Leeta not understand.

She'd recover. It would take a few days before they'd consider sending her home. He'd find somewhere else to live before that.

Rom could put up with her scorn if he wanted to, but Nog had already made his choice.

o0o

Julian was tense, listening as boots were approaching. Rations had been reduced, he could not tell how much but enough he could clearly feel it. He found pebbles which were bigger now, to distinguish between the previous situation. He tried to remember to put one on the shelf when he was fed, but wasn't sure if he'd missed any now. He wondered if it was to give the Vorta another bargaining chip or if those to be interrogated were on a different level of feeding than the potential pets.

He wanted water, but the nerves had worn him out. He should be getting another ration soon and would wait. He rolled more comfortably and rested his head on his arm, hoping to sleep. But the tension was still there and he stared at the dull walls, just wishing it was over.

It wasn't just the rations, but the nightmares. The prods had been punishment but they knew how afraid of them he was. They knew what a dark box would do to him. They knew everything there was about him. He could tell them about the two men in the cell, who were probably already dead and spare himself. If the Vorta was as determined as he seemed, he wasn't going to give up. Why, Bashir had no idea. But it would give him the chance to destroy the monster.

And if Deyos was still there at 371, would he go from being the project of one Vorta to the pet of another? There were shadowy memories of Deyos, sitting in an office, offering tea. He had said nothing of them to anyone, especially suspecting they had discovered his unusual genetics. But it had been on his mind since the Vorta had began playing this game. And since they had started eliminating those unwanted breeders from their livestock on Cyrus.

His mind drifted. More boots passed but they were moving too swiftly and he didn't tense that time. The cells were too well insulated to hear anyone outside, but the echos lingered. He closed his eyes, exhaustion taking over.

Garak was there. He was dressed in his best and they were sitting in an empty replimat, but the table had a platter with a great assortment of food spilling over the side. "You don't have to be putting yourself through this you know," said Garak.

He picked up a chunk of fruit, ripe and sweet and perfect and savored it before answering. "He's a murderer. How would I know when I'd become useless too, like the bloody messes he made?"

Garak nibbled on a cookie. "But he can't replace you. There is something wrong, too, or something went wrong. He's overly anxious to convince you of this idea."

He considered why they had left them for such a long time after the last test, and the contraband. Why they hadn't come and simply taken hostages and killed the rest, then deported the survivors. That was the usual. Cyrus wasn't going to be treated gently, but by their standard it would qualify as mild discipline. Willman knew why. He'd never said, but it figured that Glebaroun had responsibilities to fulfill, and perhaps, somehow, he had slipped up. Did he want Bashir there because Willman was or would be dead and they would need a well trained doctor? Was it better that the slaves you could save be allowed to live?

"I should be dead by now, probably in some hideous way beyond the walls at 371, " he said thoughtfully. "But I'm here." He took a fork and made himself a large, well stuffed sandwich and took his first bite, savoring each sensation and flavor.

Garak didn't appear very hungry, but then he was dead. "He won't send you there unless he absolutely has to. He's showing he has a little more power than some."

Julian devoured the sandwich. Under the fillings, he found finger foods and ate half of them. "Because Cyrus is important. If he can keep me he shows them to keeps hand off."

Garak handed him a piece of fruit, ripe and dripping, and he was too impatient to savor its flavor over missing out on something else left on the platter. "Let him, Julian. You don't really want them to torture you now, do you? Especially when you don't have to."

The chunk of some kind of sweet desert he was eating turned bitter for a moment. "He killed two people in front of me. And he ruined . . . ."

"Yes, yes I KNOW." Garak was growing impatient. "They are dead. You letting them half-kill you before they have to stop won't change that. What happened to all that genetically enhanced brilliance?"

"He doesn't deserve to win," he said, finishing the last of the treats on the platter and licking his fingers.

"No, frankly, he doesn't. But he controls this place. He already owns you. Let him save your life. Let him save you so you can save those others that this woman doesn't know how."

"I . . . can't," he said.

"Then suffer." Garak picked up the other half of the cookie he'd been nibbling on, then set it down on the table. "You might as well have this too. You'll need all the strength you can get."

Garak walked past the empty tables, thru the door into blackness.

He was alone, but still hungry. The platter was empty. The replicators didn't work anymore. He listened for the telltale sounds of boots come to take him to hell or the almost unnoticeable sound of a falling ration but heard neither and fell into a deep, black pit where he could sleep.

o0o

It should have been good that they had a day off, for they didn't get them. The CA commander had even allowed full pay for the day, the cakes cooked with the harvested vegetables into a filling meal served that day for lunch. It prevented any of them from being traded, but Keiko was sure he didn't have the right to make that decision. Nor cancelling all work parties. But he knew it didn't really matter anymore for them.

She sat, watching Pashe as lounged in the corner of the room with other boys his age. Some of them were playing a game. But he was watching, as if he was waiting for someone. She wanted to stop him, now, before it was too late, but like the commander choosing to break the rules, even looking a little pleased about it, she knew it was too late for it to matter.

When the transports could run again, after the mud from the storm which had dumped huge amounts of rain and made it too dangerous to try to navigate the roads had gone, Pashe and Molly would slip away again and work for the black market so they could give their siblings the food their mother couldn't. When CA put an end to all of it-the camp, the local unit and the fiction it wasn't just another of their prisons, they would also destroy the black market by killing anyone who had dealings with it, be they CA or locals or camp children. They would just shoot them and dispose of the mess together, for they were all nothing but outlaws.

Pashe got up, strolling across the room. The central room was open for activity that day and many had gathered to take advantage of it. It was still raining and if he dared keep defying them there might be more days. She was supposedly reading a book while the younger children played, but watched as Pashe paused by a blackshirt who must have slipped him his share and Molly's pay for he moved away.

She was sure hers were not the only eyes watching. The blackshirt had earned himself an execution. Pashe too, though his would be less formal. How many of the camp's children would go with him, she wondered.

That morning, Te'Salle had told her she needn't pay for a time. She could not accept payment when none had been cared for. Neither Molly nor Pashe had shown until very late in the afternoon, dirty and tired, since their mother's death. The camp did not work children. But the smugglers did. They paid very well, given the risk.

Te'Salle didn't expect them back. Once children ran to the hills, they had left home already.

The work had changed too. Machines had scraped off most of what was growing, and posts with strings stretched between them marked where the watering channels would be dug. They dug them down to where the supplied stick measured, and started on the next row. The soil was marginal, but then the berry plants did need good soil. They weren't worked by those like her or even the sarki forced labor, but convicts. Once the unit was purged, there would be plenty to finish what they did not.

They were making it into a Farm. None of those there now, save those convicted instead of shot among the CA unit, would remain and they would be the slaves then. Between the segments of planting areas, the fence post for the security fence were already in place. Both of the berries the plants produced had their uses. The white ones became mush, the single base food source in CA controlled detention areas. The red ones made all the pain and grief go away when added to the mush, and would be the next thing smuggled. CA didn't put farms in populations because of the red berries, but they had expanded the detained and slashed and owned population so much they needed a *local* source to feed them now.

Where they would be taken, punishment for having the berries was death. It would be worse with a farm this size available.

She did have an out. Miles would want her back, even with the blacksuit. Unless the children were caught with rations, she would not be slashed, and if she wrote and made nice and pretended he was not the enemy, maybe someday she could live in their luxury. Even if his unit failed as this one had, and he was shot, they'd just deport the families to Bajor.

But as the day ended and they retired to home, and she told Pashe, quietly, that he should save the cakes for when the road opened, and saw the loathing in his eyes, she knew neither she nor the children could ever pretend well enough to fool him.

o0o

Savoring her unexpected freedom, Arela followed the muddy pathway to the spot where they got fed. The upper deck was muddy and blocked, the mossy areas being marked. Her uncle had told her the moss was going to have to grow and die before they could play there, and anyway, she already had a job. So she spent most of each day in the stuffy little house, her guardians afraid the children would get sick if they were outside, and she dreamed of the day she turned fourteen, and in their stark new world was an adult. As an adult she could move and Aunt would have to find someone else to watch her cousins.

Others took their children out so they could play but her cousins went to school. She was baby sitter, nursery maid, and teacher. They'd made a chalk board for each of their work which was reviewed each night. She supposed it took their mind off the reality, but she had friends and as soon as she could go would spend her time with them.

She hoped the woman who told stories would be there, but it was said she was sick. She got to tell lots of stories, but what she really wanted was hear someone else do it. Looking around, the sky had taken on a grey cast and most were leaving. It was probably going to rain again and she'd have to tend to Aunt too, who had cut her hand that morning. But she spotted (Jay), standing by himself, just watching the men on the deck, and hurried up to him before he wandered off.

"You escaped," he said. "Just in time for more rain probably."

"I'll dry," she said. There were so few of her age there. The tended to stick together if they found each other. Some other place, she'd have been formulating plans to pursue him and impress him with her mind, and of course her charm. It would fail, but it would be fun. There, with such limited selection, she had gotten his attention.

"Sure wish they'd let me work up there," he said.

She didn't see the charm of muck and mud, but it would be good to be without so many people around you all the time. "Uncle sits in the main office and Aunt hauls soup. I'd do about anything to get away."

"Dad said they have to wear pins now. Some of them want to quit but he won't let them. Maybe when the moss is ready they'll let us harvest. And I hope the lady is okay since everyone misses her."

"I've never heard her read. I tried to sneak out the kids but Aunt noticed." She stared at the small crew marking the deck. "I'd even teach the little kids if we could just to get outside, you know."

He shrugged, the clouds turning into a heavy mist, the two moving away from the mud. Nobody went near it now if they didn't have to lest they slip too. "Dad said to remember everything I know. Some day," he whispered.

They moved down the deck, near an open area where a few chairs had been moved, and leaned against them. "I think Uncle is afraid someone will tell them what I do, that's why he won't let me take them out. They just don't understand not to talk about things. Maybe I wish I didn't," she whispered.

The wind was coming up, and the storm was picking up. He didn't say anything, just stood, leading the way to Mara's little hovel. She was getting over being sick, but would be alone. Jay had an odd look in his eyes, as if he knew more than he'd say. She followed him out of curiosity and the absolute joy of being away from home.

They knocked, and Mara said to come in, but first he looked at her. "Dad hears stuff. Rumors. He says things are going to change. Maybe if we're lucky it will be better."

She though just about anything would. One of those they'd shot had been a friend. As they went inside, Mara still lying on the couch looking pale, but better, he added that maybe she'd get to meet the lady later on when things got organized and they'd need more than just stories.

Arela managed to hide out most of the afternoon, before her uncle found her and said Aunt needed her help. Feeling a little like Cinderella, she hoped Prince Charming hurried up before things got 'better' and she'd never get to have a life at all.

o0o

Miles had gathered the rumors, and the circulating stories, and passed them on. He was still very uneasy about it, but more worried about refusing. He had a wife and children. If he didn't want to play he wasn't the one who'd pay for it. He knew he hadn't hurt anyone yet, but it bought him time to think. The piece of slime that was doing moss marking that day wanted to talk to him again. E'Char had advised caution. But he wanted to see what he had in mind. Feeling trapped between 'sides' he'd said he needed a walk, and started up for the deck.

His contact wasn't there, but since he'd started out he had to look like he was going to just take a break by himself. If he was lucky he wouldn't show, but then he'd worry about why instead.

He was mulling over his dilemma, trying to look as if he wasn't waiting for an ambush when a voice made him jump. "He won't be here today. He got assigned outer area duties for a few days. Stop looking like you're waiting for him."

"I assume you're the stand in," he said, looking them over.

They were dressed in a similar way, except for being in grey. One started to pull off a glove and the other stopped him. "Not yet," he said.

Now Miles was mystified. "Are you with him?" he asked warily.

"He believes so. And he's running what he thinks is a private show. Doesn't know we're here. If he asks we'll say you walked by. He'll believe us. He doesn't think much of slashies."

Miles looked them over more closely. "What's a slashie?"

"Eventually you'll find out." It sounded like a threat. "But since your looking for this moss, we found a better deposit of it, and we'll harvest it when its ready. You'll have to show us how."

"Good. We need it." He thought it would be a good time to go, since they made him very uneasy.

"Come with us, make sure it's the real stuff. We're supposed to be looking for deposits of it."

"But," he said.

"It's authorized," said the man, not that Miles saw any other option if it wasn't. He didn't dare make a scene.

At the top of the deck, there was a pathway cut to the side, on the other side of the hospital's hill. Nervously, he followed behind them, sure he was in trouble.

"You don't like helping him out. You don't trust him and think he's lying, or you don't know which side of his little revolution its best for you to be on. But don't show him that, even if you're right."

They were near the creek, this side mostly underground, showing only a trickle from the surface, when they stopped.

"I don't like unknowns. We know about Them. What about you?"

"The moss is over here. At least we think it is. I guess there's things that look like it." The other, younger of his . . . kidnappers he wondered, pointed. "You know the war is still going on. They send ships, we send ships, we capture theirs and force their crews into our military. Or sometimes they do it willingly. He did. Saved himself. We refused, and got this," he said.

They pulled off a glove. Both had an odd symbol with a slash across it stamped into their hand.

"Slashies," he said.

"It's supposed to be one of those words that define you as theirs, their property, and generally worthless otherwise, but to us its not. The suits, the officers, they all get looked at. The pixies that are left worry about them. But we get ignored by everyone."

He watched them. He'd heard old family stories from his heritage and about how waiting until it was time took more strength and courage than rushing into battle. Sometimes it still ended with you drowning in the river anyway. But he looked at the moss. It was a bargaining point. Normally it would probably go to them, but they'd share. If it really was the moss they'd harvested before they'd found great treasure. "Well, it looks like it. Grows like it. But the only thing that's going to tell us is an analysis. Take a sample and mark it with a number. Let me know. I'll see what they say."

"All right. Mr. O'Brien." He was scrutinized again. "You know what he and his people have in mind. You don't like the slime they intend to remove, but you won't like them either." He paused, looking at his hand. "Ever read Kipling? Especially the poems, the one about the Little Folk?"

Actually, he had. "Is that what you are?" he asked.

The man looked surprised. "It's a suitable description, considering what this means,"

Miles suppressed a chill. "And what plans do you have?"

"With the Vorta and his? We'll let the blackies take them down. They can take the casualties from cleaning up the mess that makes. Then we lie low. Or seem to. Like I said, you'll know about us. But we don't just give up. We have something to believe in, something to belong to. I wonder if you'd like to know about it."

Miles was confused and worried now. The Vorta and the Jem'Hadar were bad enough. A revolution and slave revolt in their midst wasn't going to make life any better for the ones in the way. And yet, maybe they wouldn't be any different by then. But just the same, even if it was all dreams, he was intrigued.

"Just how long is this 'blackie' you got out of the way transferred?" he asked.

"He's not one of them. Too unimportant. But he'd like to be. Makes him more dangerous. And he's gone as long as we need him to be. We have friends too."

Miles knew something odd was going on, with the Vorta's games. Now more games. But these possibly had a future. "Maybe I'd like to know a little then," he said.

No matter that they'd left Earth and spread across the Galaxy, his own family history and legend was still taught to the generations and remembered. Somehow, he thought, being a 'chief', being there by hard won experience, had always been preferable to being an officer. And if they were hiding this obvious survey of the surrounding area and it plants, and the men he was sure were pulled out of view for the moment, he knew exactly what was planned for those on Cyrus. And maybe if the soil was too poor, there was Tarlan and Blanchard's experiment which had been ignored long enough they succeeded. His grandfather had taught him the poem about the little people and he understood that once they were just grateful for a full meal, it was this generations' turn to fight.

Empires, no matter if they were Romulan or Cardassian or genetically enhanced mutants had one use for those they took over, even if they had lofty goals like the British or the Federation once it started to rot at its core.

"First, remember. No matter how much is gone remember who you are, who you were. No matter what they see you never forget."

He couldn't say why, maybe because he needed to know someone like them was still there, but he trusted them. "And when you send this other one back?"

"We'll give you what he needs to hear. They'll miscalculate. That's the idea."

He knew that might not be such a good thing. But he was tired of playing pretend and wished that would be over. "And what happens to us?"

The man grinned. "Not what they expect."

Miles was considering that as he took a sample of the moss, adding it to a test kit. "Number 31," said the man.

They were not supposed to be there, and only the small group they'd already seen officially was living on Cyrus. Now, since they'd wandered to the deck, it included these two, who'd be used to bring supplies as labor. He'd pass on the information they gave him. E'Char trusted them too, so of course he had to. E'Char had warned him he must not embrace the first stranger, but he'd already figured that out and picked carefully.

Returning, he had the packet of samples, supposedly from the area around the deck. It was to go to the Vorta to test. The moss was theirs, so the soup would be a bit more than half then. But mostly he was wondering if his famous ancestor who'd fought the masters and ended up in the river would approve or warn him.

But at least, finally, Miles felt alive again.

o0o

Duncan was awake. Since he'd been made to sit up and eat, he was noticing more and sleeping less. The doctor wanted him moved there to be checked, but he wouldn't go. His feet still hurt too much to walk on them and only time would fix that, or not, he knew, but he liked staying where he was.

Most of those he knew had come to see him. They sat and fed him or talked or just shared the space. He liked it. Cary came more often, as he was close by, and sitting watch on their supplies. His friend bragged he even cooked, and Mac told him he was doing well. But he liked it best when Sarah was there but she had been sick and wasn't allowed right now. He had gained weight, but was still vulnerable. On half rations they all were but he was still much worse off than the rest.

But late that day, unexpectedly, O'Brien had come. He had been at a meeting the day before, then retreated to his quarters. Mac knew a lot more of the daily activity of their little prison than he let on. His mind was working again even if his body was too tired to yet. He knew O'Brien well enough to know that he didn't do things without a reason. He'd been home for almost three weeks, and this was the first time O'Brien had even come for a short visit.

Mac lay still, keeping his eyes closed. He was getting bigger meals now, less often, and the sitting up and eating tired him out. The ration was shredded fine with his gums so sore, still. He hadn't lost any teeth yet, but hoped he didn't since chewing them was difficult.

O'Brien had looked him over, saying he couldn't stay long. Mac hadn't replied, not sure what to say. Sometimes silence got more than words. He could tell the defacto DH was working himself up to say something. He thought he'd napped a little, but O'Brien was still there.

Of course, he was supposed to be. The thing Mac wanted most of all was to be left alone. Nobody was saying so but since he'd said nothing of their abuse or what they wanted or shown much gratitude to his own yet, they were worried he might want to end it. So they never left him alone. They were completely wrong, of course, for he was determined to survive more than ever now. Just to show them. Not to ever capitulate either.

Then, after ignoring him for . . . it felt like hours . . . O'Brien asked a question.

"What did they do to you?" he asked as if he really needed to know.

Mac wasn't interested in replying. He was still thin and always hungry and his feet had been beaten so badly he couldn't walk on them. O'Brien had been held too, but returned. Did he want a comparison or something? It was *almost* worth the energy to reply. But not quite. He rolled over, away from him and ignored him for an answer.

O'Brien remained. Then, softly, he ask another question. "I know about your feet. But how did you decide it was worth the cost?"

He looked up, O'Brien's lost in his own thoughts. The Vorta was using him, of course, but he looked more like a man who had found some peace.

"They didn't win," he whispered, resting his head.

"Good." But he was afraid.

Someone came in with another bowl and his attention was diverted. But later, after his stomach was hurting and he was too tired to stay awake, he wondered if there had been more to the question than he'd thought and if someday when he had the energy to think about it he'd ask. But then, maybe, he really didn't want to know the answer.

o0o

Dorothy lay in her living room, comfortable resting in her chair, surrounded by everything which mattered. She was mildly ill, she knew, but with little fever. Her throat was only a little sore. She did not need to be torn from her home and the family the books had become. Arvel's spirit was here. She didn't feel alone. If her illness was too extreme, she wanted to spend her last days surrounded by this room. If it wasn't there really wasn't a lot the hospital could do.

"Would you like to bring some books?" asked Catherine. "The helpers can read to you or others. One of us will be there to help any way we can."

Her Daughters had drifted a bit, but when Catherine had told them she was sick she'd suddenly never been alone. It was annoying. That they brought her food was kind. That they didn't leave was irritating. Catherine had become the ring leader and after she'd not been able to properly swallow, had announced she was going to the hospital. Dorothy had said she wasn't but Catherine ignored her.

And now, it was set. Those with training had to approve, but she personally doubted they'd asked any questions. Catherine had let it be known she was sick. Even with the limited space, she still told stories and many more would come if there was more room. It was a reprieve from the reality for a little while. The Vorta or whoever he was answering to would notice. But they'd had plenty of chance to say stop and sometimes you just had to take the chance.

She'd learned that from Arvel. If this sickness was to take her, she knew she'd fought the best fight she could. Her Daughters would carry it on, of course.

Her mind wandering, having been made to get up and dress and feeling rather more tired than before, she looked up at Catherine. "What?"

"Which books?" she said.

"Something light, something children might like. I'll not waste my time then."

"You practically went back to sleep when we made you get up. I think you should pick one for you so someone can read to you."

It continued to be more annoying. "You pick one you'd like to read."

Catherine finally gave up and selected some five books. She'd already asked if they could come and been told they could. Dorothy was tired out already from the fuss.

There was a knock, and someone with a chair was there. She looked around the room, memorizing all the details. "Come sit here once in awhile. Read something aloud. Bring some children inside for a story if you wish. It will be lonely without that."

"All right. And you relax and get well. I'm going up with you but I'll tell them to."

Dorothy allowed herself to be helped in the chair, reluctantly, and was strapped in over the blanket. The wave of weakness surprised her, but Arvel's spirit was comforting. Though, perhaps Catherine was right. Not that she'd ever tell her. At least she had someone but a dead child to think about now.

The rain cleared, at least for a time, she listened to the bumps and shakes of the chair as they got it up the path, and she was pushed up to the door, which the Jem'Hadar opened.

Inside, she listened as it clicked shut and locked behind them. But the smell assaulted her, and the sounds, and she wished somehow she could have insisted on home as the nurse appeared and took the chair, sending Catherine to an office to sign in as helper. And for the first time, she understood why Arvel had so cherished beauty in his world where so little of it lived.

End, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 9


	11. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 10

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 10

Lonnie wasn't asleep when the orderly came to wake her. It had only been a little over a week since the bodies of Vance and Blanchard had been returned. She knew that her staff and Willy and Bashir were probably dead. She didn't want to imagine what had come of them before that release. But now she kept seeing Vance's abused and starved corpse when she thought of them.

She was exhausted by all the work, the hospital full of accident cases and minor illnesses. Many did not take much care, but they'd filled up what little space hadn't been crowded. Nearly every night she was awakened for something.

Jabara had been assigned to be on call for the minor cases. She didn't want to be so tired she made the wrong choice some weary night.

But this time the waking was different. The orderly already had her coat and shoes. "You have to come right now," he told her.

She stumbled out of bed. Putting on her coat, she checked the time.

It was just before dawn. It would still be almost dark outside. "Two helpers," said the orderly. "We're ready when you are."

She slipped on her shoes. A coldness surrounded her. They had more bodies. She'd have more ashes to keep as a final good bye.

Someone else could handle that. She didn't have the time. If they were lucky, the Vorta would make it a quick trip this time.

But this time was different. Her staff was told to wait by the gate. She was ordered out past the boundaries of the hospital, past the gate alone.

The guard didn't stay. She stood alone in the chilly morning with murky darkness all around her. It didn't matter that it smelled better than inside. All it had to do with was death.

Then, in the distance, she saw the Jem'Hadar. They had a prisoner they were prodding along in front of them. It was too far away to tell who it was.

He or she stumbled and nearly fell, then was pulled to an uncertain standing position. She could tell it wasn't Kay. She was too short. But there were plenty of others it could be.

Casually, without any ceremony, the prisoner was shot by the Jem'Hadar, falling with hands clasping the stomach.

She was stunned, but a horrified fascination took control. She stared as the executed victim was placed on a stretcher and lifted by two guards. They carried her new patient towards the gates.

She remembered how long James had lived. This one wasn't like Vance. This one was being sent back to die.

She was numb. It had been so sudden and casual. Her eyes were locked on the stretcher, suddenly needing to know who she would watch die. She didn't expect any of those taken to survive, but held out a small hope that some of them might live somewhere.

This one wouldn't. She could see the blood seeping through the ragged clothes already. Perhaps it might be faster than with James and the cold.

Or maybe they'd send some of them back. If any survived, one of the doctors would be a much greater gift than the staff that had managed to hide their secrets. She hoped it was one of those. She willed it be one that others inside the hospital could live without.

But the shock was closing in. Her legs stiff from the tension, she could not see who it was until the Jem'Hadar and their stretcher came near.

Then she stared at him. He'd tried so much to please them. He'd terrorized his staff and made himself the monster to hate.

But it hadn't saved him. Lying limply on the stretcher, his bloody hand dangling to his side, Dr. Leonard Willman-the one man who couldn't be replaced-lay bloody and still but alive.

o0o

The Jem'Hadar weapon had not done enough damage to kill him immediately. The anti-coagulant and minor tearing would still seal his fate when he bled to death. But for a little while he was awake, and despite the pain, aware of his surroundings

She wanted to give him something to relieve the pain. But she knew he'd refuse. They were so short of supplies that the dying couldn't be afforded anything but a quiet room and some companionship. This was the same dark, quiet room that James had spent his last moments, and Jadzia. She hated the room, but now and then considered that there was a small peace there, the peace of death but it was more than most had.

Willy hadn't said much, sleeping most of the time. But she could tell he'd noticed the changes. He'd given her a sudden look of pride when, during the changing of his bandages, she'd given out several orders.

She didn't speak softly to them, but with all the authority she possessed. Nobody questioned her orders. He must have seen that. She thought he must have known that Bashir was gone, too.

Bashir should have examined him, and the nurses should have asked him the questions they asked her. She knew that Willy had known about Bashir's secret, but not at the end. He had known about the hidden instruments, and she assumed that Willy had figured out he been taken, too.

She was checking the dressing on his wound when he surprised her with a question. "Where is Bashir? There are a few things I should tell him about the treatments while I have the strength."

She had been concentrating on the wound, her hands covered in blood, when she paled a bit and looked up at him. "You didn't know?" she said, confused. He said nothing. "He was arrested. He had that device he used on his leg in his pocket. They dragged him away when he couldn't walk."

Willy was angry. It surprised her, somehow. She'd seen a respect grow between the two men near the end and somehow expected it to counter his disappointment.

"Then he lied to me. I took it away from him. He seemed to be doing well enough with the drugs alone."

"He was always in pain," she said, surprised she was defending the younger doctor who had taken so many chances and left her alone as a result. "I think the drugs didn't do enough and he just couldn't manage without it."

A wave of bitterness filled her, quickly banished. She couldn't live with that and still work on the victims. Later, some day, she'd allow herself to feel again.

Willy's anger had faded into disappointment, aimed at both Bashir and her. "He told you, then."

"No. But I knew about the pain. He didn't want me to but I could tell. I didn't know he had his instrument."

She wondered, quite suddenly, what she would have done if she had known. She'd been so terrified of Them coming. She'd known they'd take Willy. If she'd known they'd take Julian too she would have made him get rid of it?

Or could she? Willy had confiscated it. He thought it was destroyed. If Julian wanted to hide it and keep his secret he would have slipped it into a better place where she didn't see it.

But she'd still have known. What would she have done then, turned him in? Would she have been held responsible for his secret, too, if they'd known she was hiding it?

What *had* been done to the people they'd taken? Willy looked thin and filthy, but he hadn't been visibly abused. But she knew there were ways of hurting that would never show up on a tricorder.

Willy was breathing slowly, letting out long, slow breaths almost as if he'd been in labor. The bandages were almost finished. She hoped the pain would be a little better then.

He closed his eyes and she thought he might fall asleep. But he opened them again.

Quietly, his voice low and exhausted, he asked, "Is he dead?"

She suddenly needed to tell him everything. She knew he didn't need to know. Or maybe he did. He must be curious. Maybe he felt guilty that he hadn't done enough to stop them.

"Missing. A lot of people are missing. We're locked inside here and it's worse for some of the rest. There are a lot of sick, hungry people too." He took in the news without reaction.

"I hope Justin is happy now," he said with bitterness.

"He's dead. Vance too. He finally died of that disease, as far as I could tell. They hadn't hurt him. I think they were treating him. Vance was just beaten to death."

She could tell he wasn't talking to her. His mumbles were thoughts he thought he was keeping to himself.

"Maybe they'd have saved him if we'd let them have him with Zale," he muttered. "Must really want this process, if they'd try to bring him back from nowhere."

She didn't react. She didn't know if it was because she wanted Willy not to know how bad off he was, or if she was too curious to stop him.

"Hope they got what they wanted before he went. Maybe they'll leave."

She watched as he rolled his head to the side, looking towards her. "Damn," he muttered, almost inaudibly, "Don't even recognize Lonnie."

She almost let on that he was speaking out loud. His mumble was so slurred it was hard to decipher, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was proud of her, too.

Then his eyes focused. He asked about two of those taken, but not with contraband. She was a little surprised since he used their names. "Are they here?" he finished slowly.

"They were arrested. They didn't have anything."

A dark look crossed his face. "Good," he said faintly.

She said reluctantly, as if she already knew the answer, "No mysteries. Why?," she ask quietly.

"They put the things in the cave," he whispered, very weakly, in her ear.

He was exhausted. She could tell he needed to sleep, but didn't want him to never wake up.

He took her hand. She could feel the weakness of his grip. For the first time, she dared to make eye contact.

She saw understanding in his eyes. "Be strong. They all look to you now." He squeezed her hand too faintly.

She realized he was near collapse, and spoke very quietly, and softly. "I am. I do all I can."

He was forcing himself to stay awake. His words were mumbled, with irregular pauses between them but he knew he was speaking. "I was . . . in charge. I didn't . . . hide the things, but it was . . . my . . . responsibility. I confessed to them to save you and Bashir, so, so they would leave you alone." He took a deep breath and winced from the pain. "Perhaps . . . perhaps they will spare him after all."

His eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.

She did not want to leave him, but could not neglect her responsibilities. Others could sit with him. One of those who'd come there with him and knew the man he'd been was called to share his company.

He was running a fever when she returned a few hours later. For a little while, she had a breather. She told the nurse she could go, but Willy was holding her hand and she stayed.

The room seemed smaller than it had, and darker. It was too quiet. She had nothing to do. She almost brought the paperwork for the day to the room, but it would not have been light enough. She seldom had such quiet moments, and could not help feeling more alone than she had ever felt before. She needed Willy, not just because he was a doctor, but because he had become the father she had never had, who shared her dreams and supported them.

Somewhere, in a place they would not see again, her family still lived, but the one that mattered was dying next to her and she could do absolutely nothing about it.

This would not be the last deathwatch in this room. She had the tricorder with her, not sure if she wanted to find some sudden bleeder which would end it quickly. James had been too far gone to judge anything by, but she thought Willy wouldn't mind if she kept track of his condition. Maybe she could help the ones to come somehow.

She scanned him, saving the record. There was a small infection, very localized, but it would kill him sooner than the bleeding alone. There was noting to write with in the darkened room, but the tricorder would store the record for later.

She had to leave, but scanned him again in an hour. His temperature was higher, but that was expected.

The next scan, two hours after the first, was alarming.

The small infection had become a major one, his blood spreading it throughout his body. His fever was very high. James had spent the whole night outside and hadn't reached this place.

Maybe the cold was the difference; James had felt icy when brought in. But there had been others like Willy, with sudden catastrophic infections that killed very quickly. Most had contaminated wounds, but he didn't. She would have to try and isolate the cause, somehow.

But it would end much sooner this way.

She didn't scan him anymore that day. She had too much to do. But by evening he was delirious. Both the fever and infection were out of control now.

He was in agony. She almost gave him something for the pain, but it wouldn't be enough to help much. He was close to coma. She hoped that would give him some escape before he died.

She left now and then, the nurse always filling in. There were only a few more scans, but she knew he didn't have much time. He'd fallen into a deep coma by midnight. Slowly, he drew his last breath and his hand went limp in hers before the sun rose.

Lonnie had been raised that it was wrong to hate. Somehow, she'd managed to push it away before now, but this was Willy. She'd had bad times in the end, but understood now.

Retreating to her office, she gave into her grief, shedding the tears that had not been permitted to fall before.

The infection had killed him. He'd died in agony, but hadn't lingered so long. She'd sat with him, taking the tricorder readings and noting how hot he was. She'd filed it all away as if he was a simulation and she was still a student.

But alone in her office she couldn't keep back the feelings. Nothing from her world would have saved him. But she suspected that there were drugs in that other world on the other side of the barrier they'd built in space that might have.

The anger was so strong. She wished she could take a rifle and kill. The Bajorans had had that option. She had never believed she would have gone to the hills before, but knew now. In Willy's name she would have taken out as many of those as she could, even knowing she might die too.

But she didn't have that option, and knowing that, the anger faded to a dull, constant pain that never disappeared.

She had only been borrowing the office before. Now, she knew it belonged to her. Bashir might come back, but she couldn't allow herself to hope that in case he didn't.

At first, she explored the room which had been Willy's, and which still carried all the reminders. She had left it as he had made it, and could still feel his presence. She gave into the tears, sobbing openly for the first time, deep sobs of grief for the man who had become her friend, and a part of her family. She sobbed out the grief until it became something else.

Someone had knocked on her door, and had left what passed as the daily meal. Looking at it, something snapped inside. The anger filled her as she looked at the soup. She didn't want rations to eat. She didn't care for their taste anymore. She didn't like the way they broke into stringy clumps as they were cooked.

Mostly, she wanted Willy to be alive. She wanted him to tell her she wasn't alone. She wanted him to save those she couldn't.

She stared at the soup. She was hungry, but couldn't stand the thought of eating it. The broth and the chunks of ration cube were theirs, and they'd killed him.

She picked it up, staring at the wall. She lifted the lukewarm soup in her hand, nearly spilling it on the desk as she prepared to throw it at the door.

But her hand would not obey. Once, she had taken food for granted. Meals were social occasions with friends and tasty surprises, and if it was not pleasing it was left. But the last year, and especially the last month and a half, had changed that. She couldn't destroy food. They were not starving, but the results of marginal malnutrition were already showing. She went to bed hungry every night.

She would never again see food, even the little cakes, in the same way. The form or the taste didn't matter anymore. Having food at all was what mattered.

Willy understood. She had never really known why before. Each sip of the broth was a little more compromise, a little more control. But she had no choice.

She couldn't hurt them back. All she could do was save as many of the victims as possible.

But she could hate them.

Calmly, she sat her soup back on her desk. There were a few scraps of the herbs they'd tested the year before in her desk. None had medicinal properties, but did make it taste better.

Lonnie dropped a small pinch in the soup. It was a small victory. She didn't have to taste the cubes that way.

She remembered the Vorta, standing in the square as he lectured them on the rules last year. She saw him a bludgeoned bleeding hulk and the knife was in her hand.

Slowly sipping the soup, she finished a little of her work. She held the image of the blood and the knife in her mind, thinking of it dripping on the reports she had to make. Yesterday, she'd been numb. She'd done what had to be done, but without feeling. Yesterday, despite the death and misery, she'd been innocent.

Today, all the days to come, she'd remember the moment when blood became victory.

o0o

Julian didn't bother with the pebbles anymore. He couldn't tell if he remembered. The rations were so few. They came closer together some times and took much longer others. He slept by the place they arrived and drank when he was awake. He barely moved at all. The Vorta had said he'd be interrogated. He wasn't sure he could even think straight enough to answer their questions anymore.

He dreamed. The Vorta stood in the circle and died in various horrible ways. Old nightmares shifted and changed. The Jem'Hadar still shot Garak but sometimes he didn't die, but stood, all the blood flowing and tore them to pieces before he fell. He was standing in their fighting ring, all the guards and prisoners standing round them in a circle, as he fought the Vorta, and was about to slice through his pretty shiny shirt with the knife he had hidden when the door slid open.

He didn't move. It had been so long, he didn't even worry about numbers anymore, that he was doubting it would happen at all. But the Jem'Hadar stomped in and ordered him to stand. He could not even sit, let alone stand. They hit him with their rifles and he rolled to protect himself, shocked out of his dream. Then they pulled him up and dragged him by his arms outside to a dully lit corridor..

He was dropped flat and hit his head again. Dazed, he did not remember much but hazy light as he was moved into a cell.

There was a Vorta. He could hear the softer taps of the feet as this one walked around him, and examined the heap he lay in.

She spoke to him in Standard. "I ordered your rations cut. If at any time you choose to cooperate, they will rise to what you received per day last year before we were forced to discipline your people."

He was in a haze, but most of it got through. It was a different Vorta. A female. There was a sharpness to her voice and a threat that Glebaron was not capable of. He assumed the others had been interrogated and wondered if she asked the questions. If they kept him as they had he would end up dying on them. Amid the haze was a clarity. The Vorta, not this vorta, would not allow that.

"Prepare it," she ordered.

He was pulled off the floor, balanced on his knees as his arms were gripped. The now filthy garment was cut open, his mind suddenly very aware as the bayonet ripped it apart. The pieces were torn away and when they were done he lay naked in front of her as he collapsed.

"Much better." She walked around him, but did not touch. "Straighten it out," she snapped. He could imagine even Jem'Hadar snapping to attention at the tone of her voice.

He was lifted and straightened, but without the abrupt force he expected. She examined him again, carrying some kind of stick. She poked it in his belly and groin. Then she studied the leg. "It's lame. Don't expect it to walk. And it's filthy. Clean it up." The guards moved but stopped. She added, making him an offer, "That could be fixed. Quite easily in fact. Be a very good boy and I'll make sure it looks just like new."

"Do you wish to question it when it's clean?" asked one of the guards with great deference and he thought, a little fear.

"No. Store it. Make sure it gets more to eat. Just as with the others."

Her voice was ice. Was she the same sort of Vorta as the rest, or something created just for that use? He remembered Garak once saying it was the threat that mattered, the belief that harm would be done, and the anticipation of it that which was persuasive. There was nothing they needed him to tell them, no secrets, no confessions, except one. It didn't matter what. That was negotiable.

His icy tormentor left the room. He stayed on the floor for some time, waiting to be taken from the room, interspersed by moments of fog. It was surprising when they arrived with a stretcher. He was lifted to it and hauled out of a door, no attempt to restrain him, and left in a small room.

He felt the touch of a sonic shower, crawling across his filthy skin, slowly and with tingles that were not unpleasant. They left him for some time, again, but there was mist in the air, and he breathed it into his lungs. He fell asleep, the room darkened, and when he woke could breath better than before.

Whatever she would do, she was not allowed to kill him. He suspected he was to be returned undamaged when she was done. If he won, if Glebaroun got his wishes and he broke, he wanted him to be able to survive whatever followed. If he lost, if the Vorta failed to get what he wanted, then Deyos would expect the delivery to be in good health. At least for a while.

And he knew there were many ways that did not leave a mark.

He wanted Garak to come and tell him what he should do, how to read these tormentors. But Garak had done with him. When the guards returned and carried him into a new cell, one that was small and clean with a molded cot, he was placed on the bed. Then he was propped where he could eat from the bowl provided. He took it curiously, for it was very small, not much more than the ration cubes, but looked different. It had no taste at all but a completely different texture than the rations. He suspected it was heavily fortified, but would not disrupt his shrunken stomach.

"You shall receive one bowl each day. We must confirm all of it is eaten." The guard stared as he finished. It didn't take long and the bowl was taken.

He watched as the guards departed and the door closed. The lights dimmed but were not pitch dark. He was sleepy. It was enjoyable to be clean. He did not like being held naked, and the insinuations she had made were worrisome. He felt somehow diminished by becoming an it.

But the food was soothing and calming and he fell asleep before he could complete the thought.

o0o

On Cyrus, there were three meals for most of them. The hospital split their meager supplies into small bowls so they'd not be so hungry. The main section fed them better, but still not enough.

At first, the children were sick too often. They had colds and rashes, and anyone already sick got worse. But as time went on, even the healthy adults were showing signs of malnutrition.

For most, it was being too tired and too easily sick. The colds would not clear up. It was hard to sleep, and harder to wake when morning came and reluctant bodies had to rise from bed.

The diet was balanced, just insufficient. If it hadn't been things would have been much worse.

It was for those locked inside dark rooms. There was nothing extra and nothing to look forward to but a stumble outside and dry cake to eat. Time hung like an endless tunnel, and sleep and dreams kept them company most of the day.

But they were lucky. When the virus appeared they were isolated. Otherwise it might have killed them. But for the others, already weakened by hunger, it was close to epidemic. Few needed the hospital, but it sapped away both the energy and the hope that tomorrow would somehow be better.

Cary was too sick to work. He'd asked to move, temporarily, to a place he could rest better. He couldn't shake the sickness. Each time he felt a little better, he'd try to work and be confined again to his bed.

He dreamed about her. She smiled at him across a shining river. He longed to go to her, to fall into the cool water and not be so hot.

Sometimes, when his fever ran higher, he'd see the girl's dead eyes and feel her stiff body in his hands. Then she'd open her eyes and whisper just above silence, her face soft and glowing, "Do not fear I wait for you." She'd smile and the face would be hers, the river reflecting in her eyes.

But he was tired. Someone brought his meals to him. He didn't bother with the hospital. Nobody could do much to help, and he'd rather sleep with her smile than be crushed with too many others.

Sometimes, when he felt a little better, he watched the children. They didn't run now. He thought they looked too pale and small. He knew adults could cope with this better than children. They'd bear the mark of hunger the rest of their lives.

He helped with lessons sometimes. But the children were too tired, or too hungry, to really listen. What would become of them? Would they grow up barely able to read and knowing only this mean little world?

It had only been six weeks since the monsters had come. Unless there was more food and even a faint hope that life would improve, they might welcome the Winter this year.

o0o

Tarlen Jaro sat on the floor of his cell, trying to remember the formulas he and Justin had created. It was necessary because he needed to remember what they'd done or he would lose his mind. They had stabbed his neck with their device, and kept him hungry, but had not physically touched him.

He didn't know what to think. For a long time, he had expected the door to be opened and to be dragged into some sort of torture pit every time he heard noises outside his cell door. But all it had ever been was food, or water, or an occasional scan by a strange alien they had not seen before. Once, they had even given him an injection. After that, the cold which had lingered since the winter had finally disappeared. The strange looking alien had returned to scan him several times after that, and his food allotment had suddenly doubled.

He didn't ask why he was getting such odd treatment. He assumed, when they'd tired of the game, that they would take him away to a pit of despair. The Cardassians did. These creatures were said to be their allies. But in the meanwhile, he sat in his lonely cell and hoped their game lasted a long time.

But even this gentle captivity had its own kind of torment. He could only stare at walls for so long. The food was sufficient he wasn't so hungry now, but its arrival was awaited just as much. It relieved the unending monotony. Even better were the occasional visits by the odd little aliens. Often, after they had come, good things happened.

Recently, in addition to more food had been a mattress. He no longer had to sleep on the hard metal floor. And the lights in his cell were no longer almost completely dark.

He didn't think of food constantly anymore. He just stared and waited for the creatures to come. He'd been experimenting. Sometimes he sat in the middle, sometimes at the back. He liked to watch and see what they'd do, especially when he stretched out on his mattress and pretended to sleep.

The food came anyway. They would wait to see if he noticed them and sit it by the door.

All of it helped, but none of it made up for the isolation. To fill the time, he drilled himself on the formulas. He repeated them over and over to himself. Sometimes he even dreamed about them. They were keeping him from going mad. He had even had thoughts on how to improve it.

Then, all of these had fled that morning when the guards had taken him from the cell. He could barely remember his name let alone the carefully balanced formulas by the time they had led him to a small, office like room. There was a chair, and he was told to sit in it. He sat. He recognized openings where one could be bound, but no one made any moves to restrain him. Instead, Glebaroun, the Vorta that had addressed them that day so long ago, sat near by at a table and uncovered a plate of food.

It was hasparat. Tarlen stared at it. The ration cakes quieted the stomach, but this was food from home. He had wondered if he'd ever taste it again.

"Welcome, Mr. Tarlen, I've been looking forward to speaking to you," said the Vorta, and Tarlen grew confused. He had grown up amid Cardassian violence, and expected it of those in power. Here, even the Jem'Hadar had not touched him except for the tag. The Vorta smiled, and he could almost believe that the smile was honest.

One of the Jem'Hadar picked up the plate with the hasparat and placed it on a small tray attached to the chair. Glebaroun smiled again, and Tarlen was more wary than before. He wanted the hasparat. Even here, it brought back deeply pleasant memories he hadn't allowed himself to remember before.

He could think of no reason for the Vorta to offer him hasparat, but hesitantly picked up the spoon and took a small taste.

The cell and the odd office vanished. He took a second bite, and the delicate flavors filled his senses.

It was excellent. He doubted his grandmother could have done better. He enjoyed another spoonful and his stomach began to feel odd.

The Vorta looked concerned. "You look a little pale. Are you well? You do like the dish. If something else would be better we can bring it tomorrow."

Tarlen knew he had to answer. But he didn't want the hasparat to disappear. "It's excellent. I . . . it's been a long time since I've had something this spicy, Sir."

"Take your time, then. It is rather strong." The Vorta smiled again and Tarlen concentrated on eating, lest they take it away. He had to eat slowly, but enjoyed each bite and wondered what they wanted.

He was almost finished when Glebaroun suddenly broke the silence. "Mr. Tarlen, how are you feeling? You've finally gotten over your illness, I assume."

The Vorta paused, and between bites Tarlen answered. "I have been feeling better, Sir, since the aliens began working on me." He went back to eating. There wasn't much left and he wanted all of it.

Glebaroun sighed. "It is unfortunate that Mr. Blanchard was so badly damaged from the contamination that they could not save him. I was hoping the two of you could work together. Very unfortunate that his condition was never diagnosed as poisoning before it was too late."

Tarlen had finished the hasparat, and looked up at the Vorta. He was stunned. Somehow he'd managed to convince himself that the creatures who'd taken him hadn't known. He didn't see why he was still alive, and especially why he had just finished hasparat and had a mattress. "Then you know about the accident. We didn't tell anyone."

"Actually, we didn't. Please, how did it happen?" Glebaroun smiled again.

The smiles made Tarlen nervous. It was the look of a cat ready to pounce on its next meal.

But he'd explain. It would be better to sound like he was cooperating.

"Our last test. We were mixing the chemicals. The soup needs ventilation. We had none. Justin breathed enough to make him sick. He never really got over it."

"He died a bit over two weeks ago, with all the best care we could give him. I am sorry, I believe you were friends."

Not for the first time, Tarlen wondered if he was dreaming this conversation. As long as he had not been dreaming about the food, he didn't care. He might not have believed them, but he remembered the aliens. They must have been some kind of doctors, he thought. They had probably saved him from a much slower version of Justin's death. But he didn't expect the favor to be free.

"Now, you did enjoy the hasparat? Would you like more tomorrow, or would you prefer something else?"

It had been very good hasparat. He still wasn't absolutely certain that this was real. Maybe he was drugged or sick and delirious. Maybe they'd driven him to cling to the illusions he wanted he was so ill. But even if it wasn't real, he liked their bribe.

"More would be fine." He hesitated a little, but managed to sound calm. It this was real, he kept wondering what made him so important.

"Excellent. There is one thing you need to do for me, however, and that is to remember everything you know about that last test you made. The chemicals and ratios are especially important."

He almost felt relieved. There was always a cost to any deal. If they wanted to know about the project, he was willing to cooperate. He would not be a fool like Vance had probably been, and he still believed that should the project be resumed, Justin would still approve.

"I can provide them better with a padd to record them," he suggested. Somehow, he hoped this was true. He knew, lost on Cyrus, the project was already dead. But it had been too important a dream to lose, even if They helped fulfill its promise.

The Vorta nodded. "I will consider that. For now, rest. We need your health restored properly."

Then he did something extraordinary. He had a printed book on his desk and passed it to the Jem'Hadar who led Tarlen back to the door.

Everyone paused. "You may be getting rather bored, now that you're feeling better. Perhaps a book would help."

Tarlen took the book. It was a copy of several classic Bajoran novels from before the Cardassians, and was even printed in his native script. He hadn't read anything that wasn't in Standard since arriving on Cyrus. He wondered if the Vorta had any idea how special it was.

He followed his guards back to the cell, sitting slowly on the mattress. He could wish for a pillow, but was used to its lack. He hardly noticed them closing the door as he opened the book.

o0o

Lonnie wrote the last line of her report and closed the folder. The infection ward now comprised a full third of the patients. She noted that the numbers had been steadily climbing as malnutrition had become a greater problem. But that wasn't *why* so many developed such severe infections.

She only saw the worse ones. Of those, most were treated and released. Permission had finally been given for small medical teams to go to the Residential section to evaluate patients. If they could be treated at home it was best. Some needed special procedures, and were transported to the hospital. If they grew worse, they'd be brought back, but most of those were able to manage with the medicines sent back with family to treat the wounds.

But not all of them. If the more virulent infection type occurred, they joined the now crowded ward at the hospital until they got better or died.

There were fewer of those lately. She had forgotten the tricorder this time, but the nurses were keeping a close watch. She'd started using it only on those where the degree of infection was uncertain. No use wasting it on those who would recover or not, depending on luck and how much they wanted to live.

But a few more patients had been admitted that morning, and the wall that separated the wards had been moved back to accommodate them. One was a child, whose cut leg had swollen and purpled despite immediate treatment. She was young and strong, at least. The other one was among those under house arrest. After collapsing during the daily inspection, and had been sent to them. The jagged cut on his foot had been washed and bound, but it was a deep infection, unlikely to respond to anything. The best option was amputation. A year ago she'd have never considered performing one, especially without a doctor's guidance. But Willman had trained her in the procedures, and she done a lot of things she'd never tried before. He had a day to improve before they took that option. The third, a young woman, wasn't so bad off, but her arm was too badly injured to treat at home. She'd survive with proper medication.

But for all of them, survival depended on escaping the deadly, always fatal version of the infection that had already cost a few lives. It killed within days, and in case it saved their lives she'd turned to Willman's book for help.

There had been another of those treatments that afternoon. She still remembered the second one Bashir had endured, nearly killing him from the shock. She'd allowed herself a passing moment to wonder if it might have been better for him to have died then. It would have been an easier death than the ones Willy and Vance had, and if they were keeping him alive, quicker than the extended death that they'd made into survival.

She knew the method. It was rather simple. She'd been too tired to let any memories bother her the night before.

But it had been so easy; once they began it became a mechanical process, and the patient's distress was the hand holder's job. The young man had already been moved out of the ward. He was still sedated, and in pain, but the infection was gone. He had a chance to survive. For Lonnie, that had become the measure of success.

People could live with nightmares; but sometimes without them they wouldn't live at all.

The Ag staffer was stable, but she wanted to check for herself. The wound was deep and not treated until it had been too late. She'd use the tricorder to be sure.

Tomorrow, the surgery was already set up. She didn't expect him to improve. Recovery would be slow, and maybe they'd leave him there long enough it might save his life.

If he couldn't come out on his own to get his rations, maybe it wouldn't matter at all when they shot him.

o0o

Since James had been shot, Morris and Rafferson had said almost nothing to each other. Numbly, they stumbled out at dusk for their rations, and then back into the darkness. They ate their food, and drank their water, and returned to bed, only to lay for endless hours, unable to sleep and too tired to do anything else.

Hunger was their constant companion, but it had become dulled. They didn't have the energy to worry about it anymore.

The future was the next dusk and the next stumbled trip outside. Beyond that was too far to consider. One dusk might bring release or perhaps death, but each walk back inside was a tiny victory.

Another day had passed. Another lost night was to come. It might bring release, or maybe death, but it was too distant to deal with.

Reality was the present moment, hour, and day. Dusk was the rite of passage between days. Returning safely inside was all that mattered. They hardly noticed the moments spent outside the door. Gradually, the sun was brighter and earlier. As the day's lengthened, their eyes, accustomed to darkness, could not take the brightness. They stood with them covered against the haze.

Inside, James's bed, and his things, lay undisturbed, except for a small drawing laid there as a wreath. A small piece of paper had been left in the corner and with a soft rock they'd made the picture.

They didn't touch the cot, or the things. Tom often couldn't sleep, and lay watching the space James had lain. He could sense the unquiet spirit that still remained.

He turned away, as did Randy, when he slept. James had been taken too soon. He had too much life to go. There were so many pictures inside him nobody would ever see.

Tom wondered if those executed in the square were still wandering. How did those who passed beyond life see those who lived? Did those who had died violently linger much longer, not yet ready to leave?

Sometimes he heard little noises. James mumbled in his sleep, and Tom could almost make it out. The cot would groan as he turned.

Randy had probably noticed, and some day he might ask him. But Randy didn't talk anymore. Neither did Tom, except in his dreams.

Tom had never allowed himself to turn over to see if there was a ghostly image, or not. The noises were bad enough. James found some kind of peace by morning, and Tom could sleep by dawn. No light leaked inside, but the days warmth was able to penetrate their prison.

The hardest part of the day was afternoon, waiting for the next ordeal. Tom didn't sleep. He was afraid he'd not hear them soon enough, and perhaps not move fast enough.

He didn't know if he cared if he lived or died anymore, but didn't want to die that way.

Sometimes he thought of Zale. He'd been there from the first day that Vance and his first abbreviated staff had arrived. Tom didn't agree with what he'd done, but didn't want to see him taken away. That's why he'd put the strip of metal inside the room. Some days, after James groaned half the night and the day was too hot to sleep, he wished someone had forgotten one there. Maybe it would be easier to get the misery done.

He was so tired, and so hopeless that maybe a quick death would be better. But there was nothing in the room that would grant him that, and he would not die as James had.

He didn't want his spirit caught between death and life.

When the Jem'Hadar came for the next scan they would once again be lying awake, in anticipation of the ritual of the meal, the only thing grounding them to reality. There had been no interruption of this pattern since the day James had died.

But that day, a resounding thump had stirred them from their dreams, and the door opened to the soft light of dawn. The guards ordered them out. Still groggy from sleep and half lost in dreams, Tom pulled himself to his feet and stumbled outside. Randy didn't look up, but followed.

Even lost in their misery, the sudden change in routine brought a sharp, dangerous awareness to the moment.

There were others standing outside their prisons. They were pushed forward together to the place James had died.

Tom didn't look down. He was afraid some of the blood might still be visible.

Then, suddenly, a group of figures materialized across the square. Most were Jem'Hadar, but three were prisoners. Each had their hands tied behind their backs and were blindfolded.

The blindfolds were removed. Dirty and unkempt, they squinted at the light unable to shield their eyes. Rafferson recognized them despite their filthy, wasted states. All three had been in Blanchard's inner circle.

They stood, dirty and wasted, eyes shut against the light, heads down. They didn't move from where they were. Randy was watching, but barely paying attention as if he'd seen something on the ground.

o0o

Andy wasn't sleeping when they banged on the door. They'd had two more meals, given them with a water refill while the Jem'Hadar scanned the room. There were others imprisoned here as well, but he didn't try to see faces, and it was too dark to tell. But the banging seemed early, as he sat up in bed as the others roused themselves, looking at the door in apprehension. Sitting up, they pulled on the boots as well and when the door burst open were prepared. But instead of nearly evening it was the early dawn.

"Out," bellowed an unfamiliar guard, as they scrambled to obey. Outside, a knot of others, the ones they saw in the dusky light during feedings, had been gathered out near the middle of the square.

They looked different with their coats, but were pulled to the side for a better view of whatever was to happen. Andy noticed Rafferson, looking away from something. His roommates were watching. They'd known him for a long time. Andy wondered what else had happened that he didn't want to see.

But across the square, a group materialized, Jem'Hadar and prisoners, and as they were positioned, blinded again by the rising sun as their blindfolds were removed, he shivered, even if it wasn't that cold a morning.

o0o

Those assembled from the rooms watched intently, in absolute silence. The tied prisoners and the guards stood as the sky began to lighten and the first bright rays of the sun could be seen on the horizon. The head guard motioned to the others and the prisoners were hauled into a line, each facing into the sun. Each had a Jem'Hadar weapon pointed at them. At a signal from the head guard, all three dropped from a single shot in the abdomen.

Morris continued to stare, frozen in place, still seeing something in his head at which his un-focused eyes were staring at. Rafferson had once considered them friends. The blood of the man in the square, and James, mingled in his mind and covered them.

He didn't care what they'd done anymore. He simply wished a shape edge and a quick death to banish the nightmares.

They didn't move at all.

The guard ordered the living back inside their dark rooms. Neither he nor Morris moved. But someone bumped into Rafferson and he grabbed Morris and dragged him along, back into the room. The door shut behind them and locked. Rafferson steered Morris to his bed and sat him down. Then he sat on his own.

Morris sat for a few moments, and laid down, curling towards the wall. He was shaking. Rafferson watched for a few moments, and lay back himself, staring at the ceiling. A while later he noted absently that Morris had stopped shaking and was probably asleep.

But he could not sleep. He could not drive the images of his friends from his mind, and the flashes of their faces he saw when the explosion of energy hit. He was still awake when dusk and the next day's cycle came.

He'd heard that Vance was dead. They'd been told. He could still remember the day the runabout had landed on Cyrus the first time, with Vance and his first little staff inside. It had been so clean and new. There were so many dreams.

How could it become such a nightmare?

Eventually, the day fading into another endless night, he fell asleep.

He tried to remember the first time he'd stepped into the square, but now all it had on it was blood in the sunshine.

o0o

Somewhere between breakfast and lunch, Miles stared at the paperwork on his desk, barely seeing it. The next time he was called for an audience, he'd have to sit there and make nice, because his own needed the small extras the Vorta was giving. He'd have to fill out more mounds of the paper. He'd have to encourage everyone to cooperate by standing by Michael and his rules.

But what he wanted to do was trample the paperwork and give it back. The bribe was his family. Even with his new friends he knew it was dependent on his cooperation. They wanted to take out the Vorta, some day at least, but he was also sure they wanted this place. The survey they'd done was careful and meticulous. Glebaroun thought it would be his future to. But he must have known that hiding behind the hills were those who wanted it more. And that for Miles and his own, it was all going to end the same, no matter who won.

Michael was just sitting at his desk, mostly staring at the door. They knew they were executions. He'd spent the morning keeping calm, ordering people to stay home. Miles didn't really understand how it worked that they obeyed, since officially Michael only had the power of suggestion. He'd threatened a few with cuts in their own rations so perhaps they all knew he might make it for everyone. But they had stayed. Or maybe they were afraid the Vorta would add a few to the list of soon to die.

If he was desperate enough, would he? Would they be the ones he might know to be watching and waiting? Would he pick out some from their little enclave just so it would be more public?

Miles head was whirling with all the possibilities, and he set down his pen, certain he couldn't concentrate. Michael hadn't bothered to pretend and was still staring. Nog had totals he'd need, but he could have done half of his smaller stack now.

The big hill was sending someone home that day. Lonnie would send the names of her new temporary patients. They knew there were three, but not who. There were friends and spouses and virtual family sitting and waiting and hoping the names didn't include their own.

Looking at Michael, he spoke quietly. "We should know soon. I suppose you're going to announce it."

"After Nog makes notifications," he said, his eyes never leaving the door.

Miles wondered how this strange person had taken him over. At times he seemed almost cold. He still made sure the extras got sent to the prep crew, headed mostly now by Shandra, but when he dealt with the citizens his rules were absolute.

As the weather slowly improved, the mud was seeping down off the upper deck. Those who didn't comply were towed out of their homes by his unofficial 'staff', like Nog, and put in work crews. It was dirty and cold work. There was not enough water to really clean up. They worked until Michael personally dismissed them from their duties, for as many days as he decided.

Sometimes Miles thought his own actual official authority had been eclipsed, but then he still had to play the Vorta's game, and Michael didn't. And should there be a problem, he would rather be himself.

"You think they're Ag?" asked Miles, the silence daunting.

"Probably. They already punished Medical. I'm sure they knew all the details before they even came. I'm guessing it's the one that got this nightmare dumped on us."

There was little hint of sympathy. "Not that we're going to have that problem now," he said.

"Nobody likes it. But it's how life is. We both know this gets over, and whatever he's afraid of, whoever wins, they'll see a sufficiently obedient population to move on. What happens after that? We'll find out."

"I don't think anyone is going to be bored with nothing to do," said Miles.

Michael glanced at him. "That survey? I guess they got good results."

"More than good. I wonder if Vance or his people ever dreamed of the bounty outside their doors."

"Then I'm doing the right thing. Whoever they are, they aren't going to tolerate breaking the rules either." He seemed to fade inside himself for a moment, and Miles wished he could tell him the secret. Those things which were obvious about the way the Vorta acted were shared with him. He had noticed a few Miles hadn't even thought of. They both had authority, but somehow, Michael didn't need a title. "What about the moss, did they find a lot of it?" he asked.

Miles considered. One the deck there were good areas of it, but the other one was the most valuable. None of their own would be harvesting any of it so he took the chance. "Quite a bit. The rock did us a favor, I guess."

"Things aren't good," said Michael, " but they'd be a lot worse without it. In case you can ask, anything that happens to be growing *on* lower deck, if we use it do we have permission?"

The wording was interesting. "My guess is it will be all right. It's too early to harvest anything yet so we have time to ask." And time to hope it would be done by then, he thought.

"I've told people to keep hands off. We need it checked anyway. Maybe you could ask about that too." But this time Michael had faded, and had returned to the stare, this time a bleak one. Miles couldn't help. He'd need to tell the people on the deck what should be cleared that day too. One patch which looked like the moss was to be eradicated, but it didn't say what it was.

He was about to say he'd have to take a walk up there later, and Michael should stay until he returned, when Nog burst in the door and for a moment that was all that mattered.

o0o

"All of them were Ag," he said. He'd given the list to Miles, and he'd nodded, rather curiously. Michael would have to find any family or close friends to notify before he got to let the rest out so he had his own copy.

"These were all on discipline last winter," said Miles. "Tarlen didn't trust any of them. They got information out of the ones they took, or they already knew."

"There's a couple of widows, " said Michael, "One's pregnant. I'll get a notification list going but it won't be long. And you're sure of this. They were the ones who brought this on?"

"Yes," said Miles. Nog looked at the two of them, relieved all he did was deal with supplies. Willman's death had left a pall on everyone, but he knew Michael well enough to know he'd be sure they understood that.

He didn't know Michael anymore. The threats to cut selected household's rations had spread, and he got immediate cooperation after that. But it wasn't the same man he'd worked with before. Shandra was running the prep group as Michael had, with the same attitude, but he saw the way she looked at him sometimes, as if she didn't know him either.

"I'll need some time this afternoon, since I want to have a talk. I'll get this done by tomorrow." Michael moved the paperwork over, taking out a blank sheet and a pen.

"I have to go up the deck. The lab report needs to be discussed, so maybe Nog can sit in for us this time. He can start on your paper, too. I don't want to wait too long on this and we have lunch soon." Miles wasn't watching his reaction at least, thought Nog. That was the last thing he wanted to have to do.

"I guess you just got a promotion," said Michael.

Nog just nodded, remembering Dax and wondering if now, with the killings, she'd have had to abandon her approach or if the Vorta would still be accommodating her. He'd already figured out that Miles wasn't much of a recruit. "Maybe I can bring in supply's and finish it up," he suggested. Even if he liked spending as little time in the depressing office as he could, he didn't really want to see the faces today. By tomorrow they'd have accepted things, but even if Ferengi were raised to deal in reality, this was one he wasn't quite ready for.

o0o

Nog with a pile of work holding down the office and Michael giving his lecture in Residential, Miles was glad to escape to the deck that day. He carried the report with him, number 31 noted as moss, and thought at least it might be a small positive out of a terrible day. Michael was right. The men had brought this down on their heads, but he could still dredge up the memory of their shock and innocence back then. Others had hidden the household variety of contraband too, but given it up. He could understand the drive to preserve a little of your life, and if it was Ag, something to believe in. At least he could now. Back then, he'd simply allowed himself to exist. If it was good or bad didn't really matter. His was over. His family was abandoned and even if something miraculous happened and they came home, they wouldn't be the ones he missed.

Now he didn't care if they were or not, just to have them near. His luck in being chosen for this job had made it a possibility. Or even better, something likely. But that day had dimmed the mood. Where were they? What kind of life were they living? Would they look at him as someone who'd... who'd collaborated?

The word had been used before, but carefully. But now it wasn't so simple. The others were still being starved, if the report on the condition of the dying was typical. His own were still hungry but lucky. You had to remember that luck mattered and be considerate so it didn't disappear.

But the two men he'd met, the ones in grey with the slashes, had already heard. They were marking off several areas where the mud was still intruding, and he stepped up near them before they saw him. "Hard day," he said.

The younger one kept on working while the other approached. "We heard. The suits wanted them. They had plans to get information out of them, carrot versus stick, with some nice meals and some special perks if they were forth coming. They were expecting them to be slashed, but he ordered them shot instead. I don't think I want to be him when he has to face up to them in a few months. It's almost over for him now, but he won't admit it.

"And I have to sit in his office and cooperate, where does that leave me?"

"No doubt appropriately intelligent about things. They have to publically play the game too. Privately it's different. They'll want you, and Emery. Definitely Emery. I'm sure they've got someone watching him right now, just keeping tabs."

"I don't know him," he admitted. "He did all the paperwork for food but he seemed to find something to appreciate too. At least until the end."

"They've seen that too. And you. And he's doing the right thing right now. Anything else is suicide."

"I know. But at least I have some good news. I think we need to look at the false reading too since there might be something to look for."

He handed the report to his contact, who nodded. "It's over yonder. I don't want to hold you from work any longer than we have to, but we need something to look out for before we wipe it."

Miles was glad. He hadn't made up his mind yet, but couldn't ask there. On the other side of the hill, however, it was different. And after he knew the Vorta had killed them out of spite, he knew he'd mind even less if he suffered an accident sometime sooner than planned.

o0o

Miles studied the two leaves, noting one was more pointed than the other, and grew more flat to the ground. It was the bad moss. They took multiple cuttings and sealed them in a box, but gave him one too, incase it grew further down the deck. He almost said nothing, but didn't know when another chance would come to ask.

"When these suits take out the butcher, then are you the enemy?"

"We're already the enemy. They know we exist. They just don't think we matter."

"I need to know about you. I don't dare let on how disgusting my job is, or how hard it is now to not let that show. What do you stand for? I don't think I can do this if there is nobody out there willing to stop them someday."

They stopped near a patch of flowers. They were red, with petals like a rose. "Looks like we won't have to look far for ceremony," said one of them.

He picked a bud. "This is us now. We have dreams and plans, but its not time yet. This is our symbol, a bud. We can't pay back the Dominion, not ourselves so we'll help them, but then comes the hard part, keeping the dream while we wait for our time. You already understand. If you didn't, you wouldn't have encouraged Emery to teach them to hide. We all have our moment. Ours isn't here yet. But it doesn't matter what they think, we know we don't belong to them. Once you let go, you won't either."

He took the flower. "This looks a lot like a rose. Make sure you save those. It would be nice to have some flowers."

"We are the Rose," said the man. "And just remember. You only belong to them if you let yourself. Doesn't matter what they see."

He didn't have much time and had to be back or he'd be gone too long. "Then I'll learn to, and maybe you can tell me more," he said as they passed into view, the bud tucked into his pocket. When he didn't think he could stand his life, he'd have that to remind him that not everyone had forgotten how to dream.

o0o

Andy was trying to get the vision out of his head, the way they'd fallen, how it looked like they would be left in the dirt to die there. He had visions of revenge, but the shock and blood had not been so sharp and defined before. He knew who they were, and that they'd probably organized the cave and the other stashes, and were why he was lying hungry in a locked room, but just the same, it had never been so starkly defined a plan. He'd known them just well enough to know how much they believed they had to do their deeds. It had been the wrong choice, but he knew it was the only one they could make.

Revenge didn't sound quite as simple with the smell of fresh blood still in his mind. When had they known that it was going to lead them to this day? Had they already gone too far to back away? Or did it matter if somehow it made a difference?

One of his roommates was crying. It was quiet and he had his head buried in the blanket, but Andy just lay still, also cocooned, but listening, as the silence filled the room. They'd been outside for their meal already. None had looked that way, not even him. But it was after the food, almost as if that way they knew it was real that the crying began.

He had worked with all of them. He knew the kind of damage a close up Jem'Hadar shot could do, and how slowly they'd actually die. But dreams aside, they *had* known. They had made the choice not only for themselves, but everyone, knowing they were playing this deadly game. But they did not have the right to make the choice for everyone.

The others with him had been there from the start, just as the dead, or dying had been. He tried to phantom how it would feel to know the hurt and pain they'd caused everyone, but still remember the little daily memories of better days which might matter even more now that they were over. And he'd told them that these men had been suspected. Unless they'd killed the rest while interrogating them, why were the rest missing?

Trying not to ponder the question, wanting to sleep, the crying was irritating. He pulled the blanket closer as if it would block it out.

The youngest of his roommates finally sat up. "I hope they die quick. They could have at least used kill shots. Not just make them bleed to death."

Andy just listened to the silence that followed. Then the most senior of them stirred. "Don't feel too sorry for them. It just gave Them a good reason to bleed us out too. I have a friend in Residential. She's pregnant. Before they moved us, They told me what they did there. They shot some of them too, just because they could. Just randomly. And they don't get much more than us. In a few months maybe they'll kill enough of us they'll be done, but these deserved it."

Tabler was glad he'd stayed by himself. He wanted to owe them for everyone, not just a few. He wanted to be the invisible man. The crying stopped, probably quieted by sleep. The light never went out, and it was as if they lived in an endless twilight, where the easy absolutes were all gone.

He thought of the civilians and the children and the people who'd never even heard of the teraforming project, and how now they were paying for the dream of saving it even if the men were dead. Just to get revenge wasn't enough. Not anymore. They'd stolen dreams, and futures. Nothing would restore them. But they'd have plans for Cyrus if they were going to this much trouble, and if you stole dreams, then it was only fair to have yours taken too.

o0o

Ray was thinking of Walter. He'd heard he was dead. There were no direct links with the hospital, but patients came and went, and word came with them of the changes. He could still remember, in sharp focus, the day They had come. Everyone had been ordered outside first. Walter and a few others had been removed and taken away.

His hands were tied behind him. He'd stumbled away in a daze, prodded onwards by the guards.

Walter was gone and Ray and Tara were ordered inside. The terrible day they'd killed their hostages across the line they'd been lucky. Since then, they'd gone on as best they could manage.

Walter had been so scared the last months. He never talked about the place Cyrus had been, or his dream, but shared meals and small talk with his friends. You'd never know he'd once been the director of the place.

But one afternoon, shortly after harvest was done, the three had been standing on he hill overlooking the fields. "The dream will come," Walter had said very quietly. He'd worn a look of grief. "But not the dream we shared. Dreams are things to twist and use. That is all they matter," he'd said bitterly.

Tara had nodded. Walter had paused, looking towards the place his large test was to be. "This will end," she'd said. "That field is still our future."

"No," he'd said quietly, "not ours." He turned away from the field and settlement, looking at the office area. "I was a fool. This has always belonged to them. My violet-eyed friend gave us too much. We should have known."

Ray hadn't known if he should believe it or not. Watching Tara he still did not know.

Ray had heard some of the history of the colony, mostly from Tara's telling him Walter's story. She'd learned how to make people comfortable when she had her shop. Walter said more to her than anyone.

"You heard what you wanted to hear," she said.

He'd looked at her, his eyes grim. "Sisko brought you here and he blames himself. He allows them to make him their puppet. But I allowed this place to exist. This Vorta in disguise offered us everything and we welcomed them. We never ask any questions at all." He'd looked at the field one last time. "I brought my people here, but will not compound the injury by continuing the dog and pony show." Then he'd stood, and started to walk away.

Once past the field he'd stopped, staring at the place Sisko and his people ran the colony now. Ray had tried to follow, and then changed his mind. But he was close enough to hear the final mutter. "I suppose I'll still pay for my ignorance."

He'd never spoken of it again. Still rather shocked, Ray and Tara had decided to keep his secret. It would do no good for any of these people to know, and be worse for Walter if they did.

Ray thought about the Antelope. Bashir had lied. They should never have beamed anyone off the ship. Barrett had lied too, for he too should have known. Everyone had lied and accepted that it would be better left alone. Why should Walter be any different? But he suspected some of these people would certainly disagree with him about that.

In the last months, Walter had helped care for his friends, still recovering from the last symptoms of the winter's sickness. Whatever bad judgements he'd had before, that meant much more now.

Now, his punishment was done. The guilt he'd never allowed to be spoken was absolved. He'd never have to look upon the place he'd thought was a dream and see the nightmare.

But Ray still missed him. His whole crew had died in the crash of the Antelope. Ray had served there as a technician for five years. He wished, somehow, that even one had managed to live.

All he had was Tara and Walter. Until they knew he was dead, Ray had still hoped that somehow his friend would come home. Now, all that remained was Tara.

He'd met her as she tended to his minor wounds, housed in his quarters. She came every day and by the time he was well they'd gotten very close. She'd moved in soon after that, and later Walter had been added to the family.

Walter was gone, and he was terrified that Tara might be lost as well.

Frantically pacing, he stood outside the door of their bedroom as the medical team stood over Tara. She had had a mild case of the virus, and a persistent cough from the flu that followed. But despite the hunger, she had nearly recovered. Until a week before she had been relatively healthy. But she had come down with the new virus, and had gotten progressively worse since then.

They were bringing a stretcher. She was being wrapped in a blanket, and carefully lifted off the bed. He watched, trying to memorize her face, afraid she would die and leave him all alone.

The medics began to carry her out, and he moved out of the way. One of them came up to him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you pack some clothes for yourself and a few for her? We'd like you to come too."

Ray was surprised. He knew how crowded they were. "Won't I be in the way?"

"We're asking those who'll need more personal care to have a relative come along. We don't have enough staff."

Ray didn't mind, but was apprehensive. While he packed some of their things, he started to worry. What had he meant? He'd been caring for her and could do it there, but wondered beneath the calm voice of the medic if more wasn't wrong.

They started out, the medical staff carrying the stretcher. Ray followed along behind, wondering if he really wanted to ask. Waiting near the bridge were guards, and he tried not to look their way. But once the gate was passed the medics stopped to arrange something.

"How bad is she?" he finally asked.

They were almost to the hospital. He was afraid that once inside they'd be too busy to say anything.

"She's real sick. But she's relatively strong, so don't worry too much."

Ray noticed as they were walking how labored his guide's breathing was, and how thin he looked. As he followed the young man into the hospital doors, he avoided looking at the guards who stood near, as he entered the building.

He had never been to the hospital. He had heard about the smell, but as he followed a nurse down a crowded hallway he wondered how these people could ignore it. It was oppressively stuffy, filled with the residual smell of sickness, infection, and barely adequate hygiene. The air hung in the rooms in invisible clouds which shifted as they moved about.

He knew they did their best, but even before he saw his first crowded room could tell how full the place was. The noise of too many bodies and the moans of those in pain drifted along with the air.

The summer before he had worked on one of the crews building the extra hospital buildings, now empty. Just one of them would have made all the difference. But they were out of bounds. He feared for Tara more than he had before they had brought her here.

He was stopped in a small corridor, and Tara was taken away. He stood against the wall, wondering if he should ask someone what to do. But a nurse with a harried look on her face stopped next to him.

"Ray?" she asked. "Your wife Tara was just admitted."

He had almost hoped she'd be sent home. That would mean she wasn't as bad as it sounded. "Yes," he said quietly, afraid to add to the din which filled the corridor.

"I'm in charge of civilian help. We have a policy that if you're here you are expected to help when asked. Do you understand?"

She was so abrupt. He'd hoped for a little consideration. "I was told I'd be caring for Tara."

"Yes, her and others as needed. Nothing medical, but feeding and cleaning if necessary. Your ration allotment will come here, so you'll get fed the same."

He hadn't expected this kind of organization. But he was willing. If he had to stay in this overburdened place at least he wanted to contribute.

"When can I see Tara?" he asked, still worried about her disappearing from his side.

"She's being evaluated. We have several small wards and you'll be there to make sure they get fed and to alert the staff to any emergency. You'll see her there. In the meanwhile, I need to show you where things are."

He followed. The corridors were simple to remember. He was amazed by how they'd managed to crowd so much into such a small place. The food area was warm and steamy, and she stooped there.

"I'm on lunch. You might as well have yours."

He sat at the small table opposite her. His bowl was almost as full as at home, but the soup had no seasoning. He didn't care as long as when this was done he went back with Tara.

She finished quickly. He'd gotten used to eating slowly so it took more of his time. "Should I stay here?" he asked.

"Wait here. I'll find out where your wife will be assigned. But you'll have to get used to eating more quickly while you're here. These are the only tables where staff and civilians can eat and you're taking someone's place.

Ray watched as she retreated. He was going to tell her he hadn't known, but she was already leaving. But just the same, he hurried the food and stood, leaving space for the next person.

She returned a little while later. "Your wife is being treated but I'll take you there."

She handed him a large bowl of broth in a heavy pitcher and a stack of small bowls and spoons.

He followed her a short distance away. There was an empty bed near the side, but the rest was full of some ten others, both men and women and children.

She took the pitcher and sat it by a table. Ray looked at the room in growing dismay. At home, Tara would be so much better off.

He took a small bowl and spoon when the nurse handed it to him, and followed her to a young boy lying awake but feverish. She indicated a chair next to the bed.

"He needs his meal. Give him a little at a time. He will eat, but you'll have to talk to him. He's ten. He likes to play ball. His mother reads stories to him but she's sick too. His favorite book is on his bed. If he won't eat, then read a little to him and he'll take a little."

Ray looked at the boy and the others in the room. Tara would occupy the empty bed. She slept a lot and his mind would wander too much when she didn't need anything he could give.

But he picked up the spoon and moved it carefully towards the boy. He didn't open his mouth. 'Nurse, what's his name?"

"His mother calls him Keele."

"Keele, son, just take a little sip. It's good and warm."

The boy responded to his name. He eyed Ray with a mild suspicion, but took the first sip of broth. Ray refilled it and smiled at him.

Tara was very ill, and this place reeked of sickness. There were too many people and too much noise. How had the empty bed been cleared for her? Had someone died? Had they grown so bad they would and been moved to another room? How would he keep all of these people fed and watched over and still give her the time he had to?

But it didn't matter much then. Keele smiled a little when he told him about the way they'd played catch on his ship, losing points if you hit anything along the sides of the corridors. The Captain hadn't much like it but they did it anyway.

All his friends from there were dead. But Keele ate his soup. The nurse hadn't told him where to go next, so he picked up the book and read a few pages to the boy before he went to sleep.

It was easier at home. But there was so much time. He carefully closed the book, looking at the nurse as she returned.

"Who next?" he asked with much more enthusiasm.

She introduced him to four others. Tara would be there by the time he was finished. She told him a little about each of them and he smiled again, this time without having to force it.

Building had been hard work. He'd gotten tired and sometimes he hated getting up in the morning. But he'd mattered. He'd been more complete than before. Sitting, offering soup to a woman who's children were all she had, he mattered too.

She needed to eat. He couldn't be a doctor or a nurse, but he could give her soup.

Ray didn't even notice how long it took before Tara was brought in. She wasn't so hot as before. She was asleep, and more peaceful than she'd been in days.

At home, he might have sat with her all night, holding her hand and wishing he could make it better. But here, he gave her a little kiss and went to comfort Keele, crying from a nightmare.

Walter had refused to help in any way, but he was wrong. For the first time since the winter had come and then the Jem'Hadar, Ray knew that he could make a difference.

End, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 10


	12. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 11

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 11

Shaking off a dark shadow, Tarlan looked about the room. It was good to be in a larger space, with so many others. It had almost become normal. And there were no chairs with bindings. The tables were arranged so everyone could see each other. He'd never seen the aliens, but after so much solitude was grateful for even new, unknown company.

If only the Vorta was not still there. Glebaroun sat at a table by himself.

In addition to himself and the Vorta and the three aliens, there was a recording device. The aliens were similar to the ones that had treated him, but taller. They were chatting among themselves when they entered the room. The universal translator had been started, and their odd chirp-like sounds became words.

The questions had started after that. He thought they must have known more about the Project than he'd said before. Perhaps before he died Justin's mind had been repaired enough to record his thoughts. Or they'd simply taken the records.

But he didn't care now. If they could ask such knowledgeable questions, then his answers were not telling them anything really new.

There was a small discomfort that he was betraying all the rest, but he was sure that what came of it would make it worth the cost.

He wasn't sure how long they'd been talking. But lunch had been provided, a large platter of ratamba stew, and they had waited for him to finish. It seemed a lifetime since he'd eaten his home food, and he savored every bite. But he was reminded of his people's history, and how he was betraying it. But in the end, the Cardassian's ruin of the land could be fixed, and only the enemy could allow it. The taste of his lunch lingering, they had returned to the questions and answers and commentary about what had before only lived in the dark.

It was the third day he had come and he was almost comfortable with the odd creatures now. Now, upon waking, he was ready for his day, his mind already remembering the small details of the project, even the parts that had broken all the rules.

But they knew all about it and he was still alive. So he saw no reason not to tell them what they hadn't already discovered.

They must have noticed. It was the first time he'd been offered Bajoran food. He had dreamed of the flavors. There was much promise on Cyrus, but it would never be the lost food of home. He thought of Teala, the scents drawing memories closer. He'd thought he'd never see her or his children again. But now, he knew, if he cooperated enough, they might be his reward.

But the greatest joy was the talking and discussion and free flow of ideas. They had made the time before have meaning, and then helped him keep his sanity while the enemy had locked him in a box. But now the ideas took on a promise they hadn't before, and with the chirping aliens could even consider if there were mistakes.

This was how it was supposed to be. The odd creatures lost their strangeness when their chirps got faster and higher and he remembered how he and Justin had found some light in the dark. It was so much better than having to hide.

His mind was full of ideas again, new ones, greater ones than he would have dared. Sometimes he couldn't sleep, thinking of what they had come so close to perfecting. Justin was a the best friend he'd ever had, but the feeling had gone deeper than that. In the short time after Jaro had become part of Justin's team, they had become family. Respectful of their talents, they'd shared a love of the knowledge they might find, and a love for the dream. Justin had recorded everything he knew about the project when he got sick, and Jaro had read all of it. Somewhere it was all tucked into a file in his quarters. But he didn't need to read that; he knew all the important details by heart. And the Vorta and his alien scientists cared about what he knew, and listened to what he said.

Even through the translator, he could sense the excitement in the voices of the aliens. Only someone who understood the importance of the method would ask the sort of questions they did.

"When the formula for a particular soil is set, how critical is the makeup of the source soils?" ask one of them.

"Oh, very critical. We add what is needed for that particular soil. For a different soil the mix would be totally different." Curious which had asked the question, both talking, Jaro could feel the excitement growing as the aliens were nodding furiously.

The translator beeped, and the translated voice further strengthen his optimism. "It is so simple and so adaptable. You shall receive great status for this."

Tarlan hadn't considered that when he dreamed of family. Teala had pushed him to quit when he had held a position before. She would be not be impressed, he understood, especially with who made the offer. But it was getting him decent food and excellent conversation. He himself could handle the reflection. She would learn to. He smiled at the alien. "I would be honored to have my name associated with this procedure."

He meant what he said. It wasn't just the food and the rewards, because he wanted the recognition too.

Justin had risked his life for the Project. Jaro knew the price that might have to be paid if they honored him for his cooperation. But he *believed* in it, and the dream.

The Vorta looked up, apparently bored by all the technical terms. He smiled at Jaro, "I am much pleased to hear that. I will be away for a few days, but I see no reason why you should not continue your discussion with these gentlemen."

The aliens had switched off the translator. They chittered to each other, but looked as pleased as Jaro felt inside.

The translator was turned on again. "Perhaps Mr. Tarlan should have a padd to consult. It would make our discussions much simpler."

Jaro realized he'd passed. "I'll provide one for meetings. When I return we'll consider allowing him to keep it. For now, when he is not here, he'll be provided with paper and pen."

The tallest of the three spoke. "I do not like this arraignment. One table would be quite sufficient."

Glebaroun smiled again, "I see your point. It would be best just around a table, so we will prepare the room properly next time."

Tarlan didn't trust the Vorta, but this he believed. Whatever he wanted with Tarlan, Glebaroun had kept all his promises. He knew the Vorta wanted the project, and he was perfectly willing to come with it if they would take him.

It was only about teraforming the land. He let the chittering alien voices drown out the knowledge of what they were making of him.

o0o

Sitting on his desk where he could look at it, the middle of a set of books often used for research, Miles had pressed the small rose. The second book was part of the set but hadn't ever been used, and it looked normal sitting with the others. He'd been tied to his desk with an unusual amount of forms this month's end, and knowing the rose was with him helped. Slowly, CA was taking away the Vorta's authority, and their forms were different. Since the shootings, he understood his new compatriots better. He'd let them take out the monster. Rumors had passed up to the deck that someone had surveyed all those held up the hill. He alone knew why.

The younger slashie, hid main contact, had been ambivalent about the deaths, but even if they lost some expertise, CA would be sure to prevent it from happening again.

Maybe it would be easier when there was only one enemy.

The room was too quiet. He sorted the forms by who sent them, no special notation but the print was different, and the heading at the top of the page. Then he came to a single sheet, not CA, not even a document.

The Vorta wanted to see him, but not that day. He was actually scheduling a meeting. It was the first time. All the others had been an order to come that day, usually immediately.

He put it in his desk. He had a couple of days to be ready this time, or if you thought of it their way, a couple of days to be taunted by it.

The room still felt too empty, too lonely. He moved the top book, picking up the second one, turning to a page where if someone came in you wouldn't see. But he remembered the sweet smell of the flower and the sudden brightness of their blooms, and decided it was up to him to decide what to call his situation, not them, either of them. But Glebaroun had shot Willman, and he liked the man and the man had done nothing but try to keep his own safe. He'd even tried to save Julian.

He sat the second stack to the side, pulling the new ones closer, thinking how nice it would be to tell the pixie eared tyrant that he'd have to wait, and he already knew who was pulling the strings. Even knowing he'd lose, Miles understood the meeting would taunt him until it was finally done.

And then there was Emery. He was holding Residential together, largely by the force of his word. There were no words for the admiration Miles felt for his Chief. Because he did it for the right reason, for themselves. He wished he could tell him of what he knew, but his time would come.

Before that, Miles must pretend. But even when the Vorta was gone, Michael would be allowed to see only what he should, because he gave everything, and he would not if he knew the victory was a lie.

The Vorta would pay, but too late. Shuffling papers into piles so he could fill in the blanks easier, he wished they could see the revenge, if they could bring it to him themselves, if they could see the flash of fear in the violet eyes.

As he transcribed the pertinent figures to a sheet of waste, and began carefully writing them in, he understood they were already at war. The only problem was , they were the village in the middle of the battle, and for them there was no where to run.

o0o

Biting his lip, a wave of dizziness sweeping over him, Duncan wondered if it had been as bad for Julian when Willman had forced him to stand that first time. But then he forgot his own pain, for Julian was still in Their captivity. He would have to think about what they might be doing to him, if he'd ever come back at all if he let the thought go on. But both of the medics, which they were calling them though neither was, were steading him and he was supposed to stand and see how much pain there would be if he walked.

"Don't worry," said the woman, "We have you. You won't fall."

He wasn't reassured. And it wasn't about falling. It was about how sensitive his feet were when the covers were too tight. It was about how when it was cold they felt so numb. It was about having to face what the hideous monstrosities had done to him.

But there *was* a choice. The man gripped his arm harder as he tried to pull away. "Look we do this or we carry you up the hill. Simple as that. You try you get to go home."

They had finally decided he wasn't going to kill himself. Sarah spent as much time as she could with him but he missed her every time he saw her go. Gija came and kissed him. He needed them. "I don't think I can walk," he said.

"You don't have to. They want you to stand with support. That's all."

He sighed. "Okay, just do it."

They leaned him forward, helping him slide to the edge of the bed. Then they pulled him up, slowly, and he clenched his jaws shut as his padded feet took the weight. Standing up, pulling his shoulders back, he made himself breath slowly and calm himself.

"See, you can do it."

Panting now, feeling dizzy, he wanted to lay down again, but they let him take more and more of the weight instead. But it was odd. The longer he stood, the less pain. The more he shifted his weight, the greater the numbness. His leg hurt, but not badly. He wouldn't try to walk, not yet, but the intense stab of pain he expected would almost have been better.

"Enough," said Duncan, panting, "Please."

They eased him back, and he let himself fall back on the bed. He could remember how they'd thrown him on the floor, already covered in fresh bruises and his hands had been strapped down on his back, pinning him to the floor. Then they had lifted his feet, wrapping something thin and tough around his ankles so the bottoms were exposed.

Then they'd started the questions. If they didn't like the answers, or they weren't fast enough, or he couldn't give one, a strap hit his feet. He tried not to scream. He really didn't remember if he had. The pain was so real now, in his head. But standing, feet pressed against the floor, there had been pain but it was minor. And mostly there was . . . nothing.

He was crying. The strap had made a sound when it hit, especially when they were annoyed and they'd hit him harder. He could hear it in his head now. The stabs of pain were there, but distant, lost in a mist. He turned to the side, letting out the tears and finally sobbing so much someone was holding him.

He hadn't noticed when Sarah had come. She lay behind him, just holding him. "Just let it out," she said.

She kept holding him, talking softly, and she was crying too. Their world had crashed around him and he knew it would never go back to what it had been. He couldn't understand why they'd hurt him so bad, but they had. All the grief started spilling out and she cuddled him and he knew without her, he would not care anymore.

He hadn't heard the others go, didn't know how long had passed.

Later, after they fell asleep, and he woke with her sleeping next to him, holding him near, he wondered if that was what they had done to O'Brien and what he might have said if Sarah had been the sacrifice.

o0o

In spite of the looming theat, Julian slept in relative comfort. He must have been sick and not noticed it because his breathing was no longer stressed. Despite the nakedness, he liked being clean. The molded cot was even comfortable. Aside from the daily visit with his bowl, he was being left alone.

He was feeling better. The mush filled him up each day. He thought the amount had increased a little after the first day. The cell was not soundproof, and he could hear movement outside, tensing when someone came near, but it had been five days and nothing but bowls of mush had interrupted his dreams.

He dreamed of the fighting ring. The enemy was now the Vorta, not just Deyos and Glebaroun and the woman, but a long line of them. They died and returned and died again. But at the end of the line was Deyos. In front of him was Glebaroun. And waiting next was the woman.

She smiled at him, anticipation on her mind. He slew them over and over and she never came near. He knew eventually they would all be gone and she would be next. But he *knew* the smile. Garak wore it when he was playing guessing games about his secrets, enjoying the confusion. Garak had tortured, too. Had he looked upon his victims with the same anticipation as she was? Would the assembled crowd be able to watch as she took him down and made him wish she would kill him?

When the other vorta were done, and did not return she was next. He woke then, sweating and shaking. She would step inside the ring and smile, and that would be the image in his mind when he woke, still half in the dream.

He had begun to wish she hurry it up. He remembered how Garak had explained about the anticipation. He wouldn't die. Perhaps he might wish to, but he knew she was not in charge of that decision. Would Glebaroun watch from some monitor, waiting impatiently for him to break? Could he stop himself from screaming out names if her torment was working? Did he even want to?

If he didn't he would die in some slow and painful way at Deyos's hands. However it worked, he was the loser.

He was sleeping when they came, a pleasant dream. It was interrupted by the Jem'Hadar and the door and the stretcher. He wasn't quite awake when they yanked him off the bed and dropped him face down, He considered trying to climb off but even if he fell the injury might not delay things. Or they would beat him and it would proceed anyway.

He stayed still. Garak and his words floated around in his head, fears surfacing he did not want to know. He heard the Cardassian's screams as he'd been tortured, and the thuds as he'd been beaten. He could feel the shake of the floor as they'd come towards him, now magnified to a roar. But they hadn't touched him. He'd been lucky. But now luck was going to run out.

He had his eyes closed when they reached the room. He was grabbed roughly and dropped on a large table, molded where it enclosed him with a space where his forehead sat and a space underneath his face where he could breath. He did not move, all the pent up anticipation making the moment feel quite unreal.

"Bind it," she said, giving someone a command. He could feel his feet being pulled and bound to the table. Then a hand. But the footsteps did not sound like Jem'Hadar. He looked up, stunned to see a prisoner pinning his hand in a slot and backing away.

But there was nothing there. No interest, no expression, nothing at all. He stood, frozen, waiting for instructions.

She snapped an order. "Get into position." He watched as the slave moved with slow, but attentive purpose out of his view. He laid his forehead on the resting place, closing his eyes and taking a deep, nervous breath.

He could hear her move closer, but she did not approach the table. "It may speak. It knows what is expected of it."

He thought of the men who had put the things in the cave. If they had not, he would not have had the device. He would never had played the game with Willman and spent so much time locked inside his own personal dungeon. They would have had so much less to find. Perhaps Willman might have had a chance to live. He knew someone would have to be sacrificed but perhaps it might have been someone else.

His life would have been lived in pain, but it would have been better than this. She knew about his memory. She would play it out.

"It does not choose to speak. Perhaps tomorrow."

He almost did, right then. Garak had tried to convince him, and had finally just walked away. But they had done nothing yet.

"Begin," she said.

He heard the prod as it engaged. All he could hear were the screams of the Cardassian. They echoed around the room. He could not quite take in that it was not the Vorta or the Jem'Hadar but the prisoner who was going to torture him.

Then he realized that the screams were his own, and could feel the pain seizing his body. The tip was burning his skin, resting along his lower back near the spine. He could not breath, but managed to gasp between the screams. It must have been set high. Or he remembered the time before too well and didn't know what was real and what he dreamed.

"Enough," she ordered calmly.

He collapsed onto the table, panting and shaking. The burns throbbed. He didn't pass out but wished to. Unseen, tears were running down his cheeks.

Slowly, he got control of his breathing, but did not move. The pain still echoed through his body and he did not ever want to move again. He wished he didn't know how long she could keep it up before the injury was so bad it couldn't be easily healed. But the memory would never be lost.

She distracted him from the deep gloom and terror by making it so much worse.

"It was not given permission to speak. It must remain silent unless given permission to make a sound, any sort of sound."

Like the slave. She was going to make him one. He wanted to scream out a confession, but he was not allowed to now. If he did she would punish him for the words. But would it end it after that was done or would that not count as he didn't have permission?

He didn't try to move. He let his mind fall into a deep blackness and wanted to lose himself inside it forever.

"Begin the lesson again," she said calmly. "It must be silent. If it is not it shall be put in the box until the next secession."

She knew about that too. The only thing worse than holding in all the pain would be the nightmares that would evoke. He clamped his jaws shut, fighting panic and pushing away the blackness. He could not stop the screams if he went to that place.

The slave obediently repeated the lesson, tormenting the same nerves and the same already burned skin. He did not know for sure, lost in a miasma of pain, but it went on for a long time.

She must have commanded it end with a gesture, or he was so preoccupied with keeping silent he did not hear but it stopped.

Collapsing, silent sobs hidden from view, he was afraid to move. The fire moved up his leg, and the monsters and their shadows loomed over him. It moved further, and he wished for the cooling waters of the mist. It was faint, but enough. She and her slave and their torture was distant now. He would silently hide in his pool of cool water and she could not touch him.

He could hear her. She walked up to the table, ordering the slave back. His back was examined. She ordered one more lesson for the day.

He could feel it but it was distant, cushioned by the mist. It had hardly begun when the mist darkened into blackness and he passed into silent, empty nothingness.

o0o

Andy wasn't sleeping, but lying so still the rest of them thought he was. But in his mind's eye, he heard his brother's laugh. He loved his brother. He was a goofy kid, often assumed younger than Andy, when in fact it was the other way around. Andy was the studious son, who did his school work without prompting and was always at the top of his class. His brother did only what he had to. He preferred hands on tasks. When they worked together on something, Andy did all the planning and Jeffy put it together.

He couldn't stop thinking of Jeffy now. Not since the mysterious men had come. They wore coats over their grey uniforms, but had been waiting when the door was banged too early. Oddly, they also wore gloves. The Jem'Hadar had stood back, outside, while they'd come inside.

They had a form. Each had to give their full name, what they'd done the year before, if anything, and if they'd worked for a department, which one. All in that room were Ag. They'd double checked their names, and asked if anyone had been taken out and not returned. It was odd and suspicious, but had provided conversation until they all got sleepy again.

But they'd used a date, an earth date. March 25, filled in at the top of the form. They'd been told to sign the form too and that was where he'd seen it. The nightmare they lived in had faded and he'd crawled inside his blanket once they'd been done.

Jeffy would have taken the chance, he'd thought, like the ones who filled the cave. He would have never really thought of what it could bring. Jeffy might have even been there in his place, if things were different. But he liked thinking of the times he kidded his brother for being so different and he was in turn insulted back.

But Jeffy did take risks without ever thinking them out. Maybe he'd just been a regular kid, unlike Andy who had always been different and quiet and thoughtful. The last one he took had been just a whim, the weather nice, the pathway clear, and the little cart they'd made to ride down it near. One of the wheels had a crack and Andy was going to fix it before it broke, but didn't get his chance.

One of his roommates woke up and was moving around, talking to himself. His birthday was in March. They'd just missed it.

Andy wondered why the Vorta would even care what month it was, and use an Earth term, but he'd think about that later. All he could see or hear or dream of was Jeffy right then.

Jeffy had tried to get him to ride with him, but he'd said he wouldn't. Jeffy shouldn't either. They'd gone in for dinner and then to finish studying. It was still light after they'd eaten, and he had gone to his room because Jeffy's diddling interrupted his concentration. He usually tried to share the room with Jeffy since he worked harder that way, even with the prodding which sometimes made Jeffy mad.

They argued all the time but seldom really got mad about things. Andy had told him not to touch the cart when he'd found the wheel was broken, in his serious voice which usually meant he listened. But he'd been suitably mocked, not funny this time because he was serious. He'd decided to take off the wheel after he finished the last assignment. That way nobody could use the cart.

But his mother had knocked on his door, just putting away his books. It was still light outside. She was looking for Jeffy, since he wasn't in his room.

The steadiness that had always been a part of Andy tried, but panic set in, a horrible feeling overcoming him. He'd run out the door, out of the house, out to the pathway. The cart wasn't there. Then he'd raced down the pathway as the sun shone in spectacular oranges and yellows and reds as it set over the mountains in the distance.

Jeffy wouldn't see anymore of the sunsets he loved.

The cart was flipped over, and he'd been thrown. He must have been going fast when the wheel had come off and it skidded to the side. Andy had been the first to find him, touch him, and his chilled, still body.

His parents had screamed at him over the cart, in grief he knew now, but not then. Everything had changed. They said good bye to their son, and left home. They moved, off Earth at first, and then back. His mother cried every time a kid who looked like his brother was near. But she never let her remaining child out of her sight.

While Dad worked away his pain, Mom just sunk deeper into it. They'd been back on Earth, visiting her family, on March 25th when she'd let go of it forever, the same day Jeffy had snuck out to take his last race down the hill.

Dad had faded away then. Andy had been sent to live at school. It was only for those with the smarts, but he'd made it a refuge. All but that day. That day, he found a private place to mourn.

But four days before three men who took the same kind of chance had been shot and condemned to slow death, and once the shock was done, he couldn't feel anything. After Dad had moved on, and he'd gone to school, he'd quit grieving for his brother, except for the day. But he missed him, wondered what he'd done, if he'd have gotten older and stayed the same or given in to normal. Jeffy was a part of him and always would be, but one who only lived again that one day a year.

The men they'd shot he'd known, even relatively well, but they were just dead now. He'd add their deaths to the toll owed, but that's all. They'd stolen a part of him, a part of all of them. He was afraid that by the time he could rob them back it wouldn't matter anymore.

But he heard Jeffy laugh. 'Go get'um, little brother,' he said, and Andy smiled, then understood. It was the same laugh he always had when Andy had gone Vulcan on them. He'd keep reminding him, even if only Andy knew he was there.

He closed his eyes, and they were skimming down the hill together, the cart sailing faster and faster as he steered it past the bump which had dislodged the wheel and the brothers, together, would never let go of one another again.

o0o

Julian came to, dumped on the stretcher, as it moved past the door of the torture chamber. There was something sticky and dry on his back, the sting just fading. The twitches had faded and there was nowhere that did not know pain. He didn't move, not betraying he was conscience, until they reached his cell and he was dropped on the bed.

"Sit up," he was ordered by the Jem'Hadar.

He was so weak he couldn't but knew he dared not tell them. He just looked at them, letting his arm dangle off the side limply and hoping they'd understand. He was on his back, the burns pressed against the smooth surface of the bed. But he was too exhausted to notice the pain now.

One of them pulled him up, propping him against the side where he wouldn't slip, and held out the bowl. He knew he must eat. He tried to forget that the other reason was that she had ordered it and he could not disobey. But he needed the nutrition too. He couldn't manage the spoon but the Jem'Hadar patiently waited while he scooped it up with his fingers and sucked it into his mouth. It took a long time.

He guessed this was not a first time for them. Eventually he'd scraped out all of the mush and it was taken from him. They left him as he was as they marched out and the door shut. The light dimmed but not to dark again. Slowly and painfully he managed to lay on his side and let himself collapse.

He closed his eyes for a time, the pain too much to move. But its worse moments faded and he forced himself to remember the waters. The next day he could go there. The mist was thin now, but it shielded a little of the pain. But he was careful to neither groan or wince or make any sounds at all.

How long could she do this to him before Glebaroun stopped it? That she couldn't kill him, or even badly injure him unless it was healed didn't matter. She didn't have to with the prod. He was sure his Vorta was keeping track of things. If he didn't speak before he had to, then would he simply ship him to Deyos or taunt him more?

The silence surrounded him and he remembered the slave who had tortured him. Was this how they had made him? All he had to do was tell them something. But the empty eyes of the man, now stolen and owned, made him shudder. He was desperately afraid that if he didn't tell, if he didn't let Glebaroun own him, this would be his fate.

The bloody circle and the sticky red knife of his dreams were far away. He let the mist come, and the image of the slave faded too.

But there was *home*. They had punished them, he was sure. There would be much misery there and more death. They would never forget and would never dare take the chance again. That was the idea. They too would be owned and know it. But it would be better than dying in one of Deyos' slow executions, or being tortured and bought more each moment he obeyed. And Lonnie, she was still not a doctor. She would lose so many that he might save. What in his knowledge could make a difference that she would never see?

The pain was ebbing a little and the food making him sleepy. Afraid he might forget and mumble he tried to stop sleep but exhaustion won. He slipped into blackness and wished silently that he never woke again.

o0o

Four days before, the three executed Ag men had been brought in on stretchers. It had been a very busy day, with twice the normal load of new patients and fewer discharges than normal. Lonnie knew she'd have to evaluate them eventually, but they'd still die. Most of her fever cases wouldn't if they got sufficient attention and rest.

The Ag men had been towed to the dead room and given the standard treatment. There was enough to keep them comfortable when she could spare it. Right then she couldn't give them much, but all got enough to sleep.

They had company and quiet. If they wanted to talk to the head of the temple, he'd come to see them. A few of the human patients had asked. Maybe he wasn't of their particular faith, but he would serve.

The room already had one resident, a woman who lay unmoving as she quietly bled to death from internal injuries too great to treat. She died the night they arrived, leaving them to die with friends.

They were lucid, if in pain, when she was removed. The report noted that the three victims spent much of their time talking quietly at the beginning. She'd pulled out the companion for a time to give them a last few hours of privacy.

They had pen and paper to write to friends and family. All but one had written their letters themselves. She taken a quick scan, confirming that they were not going to survive, and gone back to work.

By the end of the second day, they were too weak to be alone. The weakest had already developed a minor infection. The others slept most of the time. They didn't talk much anymore.

The nurse in charge of the room, given a chance to rest herself, kept brief notes. When they became critical Lonnie would do a second exam for her records.

She was getting tired of finding ways to say someone had died of execution.

The first died the morning of the third day. The infection had been carried in his blood. Suddenly, without any warning, he'd faded and died. She'd taken more time checking the others after that. She had to have enough information to properly fill out a report. She didn't have time to autopsy them after it was over.

They didn't notice the practical way she dealt with them. It had been too long for them to notice who was in the room.

The second died that night. His infection wasn't bad, but he was bleeding worse than the others.

Their last victim was stronger, and the bleeding was very slow. By the time he died four days after his arrival he was unconscious and in shock, but oddly enough, still had not infected.

He'd already written his letters, but before he lapsed into the last stage, he'd asked her to write one last letter. He seemed to expect her to know who it was. His nickname was "deadhead". It was a bitter letter, and she tried not to think of the things he'd said. One of the staff had bore that nickname, but she didn't want to remember which one.

But she knew if he came back she'd know. She'd put the letter in her drawer, not certain he was rational enough to make such accusations.

Maybe Deadhead would die in their custody or be exiled. She almost hoped so. She'd have to ask about the letter if he came back.

Once her last patient was gone, the room would be empty for a time. The virus cases were mostly recovering. She didn't have so many death certificates to fill in.

The pertinent facts were easy. Death was from expected causes. But before the last's body was removed, she checked one last time.

She confirmed he hadn't infected. She'd hardly even looked at him. The injury wasn't different from the others, just a little lesser in degree. That shouldn't have made the difference.

Her oddities file was getting full. She added a short description of his end, and why she couldn't explain. Later, she hoped, the time would be there to answer the questions.

Instead, she and Jabara took some victory in the way the other patients were doing better now. As busy as they'd been, they'd gotten less monitoring than normal.

It was odd that those who received the most care seemed to die more often, and those who got almost none lived. But they'd lived. Why wasn't as important when she had neither the time or inclination to care.

o0o

Duncan watched as his tormentors arrived, the two marginally trained medics from Winter, with their instructions. Sarah had taken Gija, so he'd have privacy, but he wished they'd stay. Maybe she would see. Maybe he could try to talk to her about the fears. They made him sit up on his own, and slide his legs over the edge of the bed, and helped him into a chair. It was just an ordinary one, but had arms so he could feel more supported. He had lunch before they began, and it felt good to sit up and eat. He was feeling better, except for the legs, and there was no pain. What he neglected to tell them was there wasn't much of anything.

The woman took each leg, massaging the muscles, loosening them up, and keeping them warm with a blanket. The man, while she helped support his upper body, lifted and bent and straightened the legs, one at a time, and it was almost good when they started to throb. Anything but the numbness was good. To a point. Julian had destroyed himself over the pain. But he hadn't had a wife and daughter. He hadn't had anyone to take with him if he failed.

Duncan McFarron was not going to fail. He had already promised himself, and Gija and Sarah. And the people around him. Even if it turned out he couldn't really walk, he'd do all he could for them.

They had bent his legs enough, and the muscles massaged and covered for warmth, and he was so tired. No matter that when he lay in bed, the hopelessness came. He was exhausted.

Then they stood on either side, holding his upper arms. He could grip the chair arm for support. But he was to lift each leg up as high as he could, on his own.

It was such an odd feeling. He could tell how tense the muscles felt, and how weak. But it was as if they were from someone else. There were sharp stabs of pain, but mostly he felt nothing. It was as if they were pegs which had been stuck in in place of the real ones.

Sweating from the effort, the muscles tightening into cramps, he'd lifted both, neither very high, but all on his own. They'd helped him back to bed, and gave him some tea. He knew what it was, and wondered how it had been smuggled down the hill, but all the knotted muscles relaxed. He felt like a puppet on a string now, laid out after the show so his strings wouldn't tangle.

But he slept. And he dreamed, the men with their straps there and the orderlies now standing by, waiting for their turn.

And then he realized something. They had really wanted answers. He'd run an office. He'd helped impose some order over the staff and set a standard for work. He'd lost it when the monster came out. The rest they kept were still being starved on the hill, or maybe on the ship, or, perhaps, something worse. His interrogation was about information, not show. But, why?

The sedating tea was taking hold, and he gave into it, letting his mind float in its dark place as sleep came.

But before, he remembered some of the questions. Why ask those, he thought. She didn't have anything to do with his job. She was taking care of her daughter, and sharing his life, and even as he'd gotten involved with Sisko's security, had never brought up any of that.

But the drug won and the rest went away and he had forgotten when she woke him with dinner.

o0o

Tom listened for the sounds. Since the three men had died, his days were different. He'd known all of them, and very well. No matter that since he'd chosen to work for Sisko they'd avoided him, and some had probably helped hide some of the contraband that had helped bring on this nightmare. He still remembered early days spent scraping out space for test fields and the celebrations when the work was done.

He'd actually grieved for them. In the quiet darkness, there wasn't anything else to think about. Maybe they weren't friends anymore, but they had been.

Now, dying or dead, they had gone without saying good bye.

But Tom had broken the endless cycle of waking and sleeping, and days lived in automatic motion. Now, he noticed how hot or cold the room had gotten. He checked the color of the sky and how light it was when they were sent outside. He listened to wind and rain, seeing it fall and the small bushes and occasional trees bend in the wind. He counted the times the guards walked back and forth, and the telltale signs that it was near dinner.

And he was counting the days. He'd found a piece of wood, and after their meal each day scratched a mark to count the days since the executions.

He'd even started trying to get Randy to talk again.

The deaths had brought him back alive, but not Randy. He stood and went out the door, but there was a hesitation that hadn't been there before. When Tom tried to get him to talk, it was as if Randy didn't see him at all. He pushed his friend out the door each day, and gripped his arm to draw him inside. Randy might have not even left the room otherwise, and be dead like James.

He could see fear in his friend's eyes. Tom was afraid, but it was a fear he lived with day and night and had become part of the world. Randy's terror was different, deeper and much harder to keep away.

Tom wanted to help. He wanted to find a way to keep his friend alive, and let fear slip back against the wall. But he knew, like with James, that he could do absolutely nothing. Randy would live with his demons, or die from them. But it was always his choice.

o0o

Randy was dreaming. The guards were pounding on the door. Rafferson was asleep, and James sat quietly on his bed, calmly watching and waiting.

For company, Randy knew.

The door burst open. Rafferson didn't wake and they didn't even look at James.

He couldn't move. He was awake and wanted to stand, then obey as they pushed him out the door, but his body was frozen in place.

"Out, NOW!" ordered the guard.

Randy managed to get his legs to move and was sitting now. He didn't know if there was enough strength to stand or walk, but he willed it to be.

Rafferson hadn't moved and James was already dead.

The guard pointed the rifle at Rafferson. But he looked at Randy. "Move outside now."

The rifle was fired at Rafferson, hitting him in the back. He jerked up and fell, his eyes glazed and dead.

The rifle was pointed at Randy now. James stood and went to wake Rafferson. He separated from his body and stood with James, looking at Randy.

The guard pointed his weapon. Randy didn't want to die. He didn't want to live in this darkness alone either.

"This is easier," said Rafferson.

Randy forced his stiff legs to move, standing up. He didn't have his shoes but pushed his right foot ahead, careful of his balance. His body was still too stiff to cooperate.

Maybe it was easier to die, but he wanted to live.

The first step led to another, but they were slow and difficult. Life waited at the door, and death behind him. One pulled him forward while the other held him back.

He used all the strength he had to speak. "I'll go. Just not fast. I can't move fast."

The guard backed up, his rifle still aimed.

The other guard bellowed, "Now."

Randy couldn't make his legs move. He looked towards Rafferson and James, pleading with them to let him go.

The guard shot one blast from his rifle, aimed at Randy's stomach.

He woke up, sweating and shaking. Rafferson was curled in a ball with his blanket wrapped around him, sound asleep. James was elsewhere at the moment.

He gulped great deep breaths of relief that it had only been a dream. It had taken hours to get to sleep, with the sounds outside and the dim light flickering shadows. James rustled in his bed. Finally, exhaustion taking over, he'd slept again.

Then the dream came. It came every night. Rafferson always died and he was next. Which time would it come true? Which day would be his last?

Except for a quick nap, he couldn't sleep. He stared at the flickering shadows. It was warm by afternoon. The sounds outside changed. Rafferson woke and took his morning drink of water, leaving Randy his half.

Eventually the thump came again. James was gone and Rafferson up and ready. But Randy had the vivid image of the rifle and the blood and the lure of a quick way out. It still pulled and tempted him, even if the callers were not there.

Tom grabbed his arm and pushed him ahead and his legs gained strength again. He stumbled out the door. The light was brighter. The last vestiges of the heat of the day warmed his body.

He let Tom take his rations, as he had since the dream had started. Randy couldn't stand coming that near them.

Then, without waiting for a hesitation, Tom took his arm and pulled him inside. He went to his bed, sitting, while Tom handed him his food. He poured the evenings water, and gave Randy a cup.

The cubes were so small. But they were tough with the sore gums and teeth. He'd put his cube in the water to soak after Tom was done with his share. Then when it was soft he could eat it easily.

Tom just tore them into pieces and sucked on the strips. Randy wondered if he did that to make it last longer, but couldn't find his voice to ask.

Tom took out his piece of wood and marked it. Randy didn't care how long had gone by. He didn't need to know how many days had passed, or would, until the dream came true.

When his cake was soft, he'd eat it and put the cup on the table. Rafferson would be resting but awake. Randy would curl on his side away from the living and the dead and try to sleep. But it was all a dream which repeated endlessly until it didn't.

There was a rustle in James bed, and he sounded restless, maybe even impatient, and Randy wished however it came out that it would soon be over

o0o

Cary sat in the little chair he'd fashioned for himself in the relative shade of his small quarters. He wasn't so sick now, but still very weak. Later, when he'd gotten strong enough to help, he'd go back to work with the soup. But he'd decided he liked his little hut of a room where nobody bothered him unless he wanted them to.

He'd taken a few walks. A patch of grasses, small but inviting, had sprung up in a damp spot near the edge of the deck. He'd helped gather the spice before and decided his lunch would taste a little better with some taste. Nobody had seen him pull the small patch of grass. It was one of the advantages of his hut that he could hide things if he wanted to.

The Jem'Hadar weren't going to search again. They were extracting a greater punishment with the sickness and the hunger than a terrible day of fear and a few deaths could manage. He'd never forget the executions, but the weary, hungry time that followed was harder to take.

Today, he'd gotten his own lunch. It wasn't officially permitted, but nobody minded if you took your meal home to sit in the shade of your wall to eat. As long as the bowl came back it was overlooked.

He'd gone inside the warm room for a few minutes, sprinkling the minced, now dry grasses into his soup. Then he'd let it sit for a time so the flavor might fill the small bowl.

He even had an appetite now. He hoped that the flavor would be a little reward in the dreariness of every day.

But he swallowed the soup slowly, enjoying each sip. The flavor was good. Somehow it didn't seem the same, but he was enjoying it too much to worry.

After eating, he was sleepy. A small breeze had sprung up, and he retreated inside, the bowl left by his door. He'd take it back after his nap. He didn't think he had the strength to walk that far until he'd rested.

He fell asleep immediately, despite the warm room. He dreamed of odd bright lights, swirls of color and flashes of things he couldn't remember. His body was heavy and yet he couldn't stay still. And she was there, somewhere, behind the bright show. All he wanted was to tear it away and run to her.

But it was hot. He woke, still disoriented, from the dream needing a drink of water. The images were still in his head, held back a little as he forced his legs to stay still. He'd drink and go back to the vivid world she was hiding behind. Before morning, he'd find the hidden door and have her in his arms.

He was so hot. Perhaps he'd been wrong about the sickness. Maybe it was worse again. The fever must be back, and too high. Awake, the shiny dream was distant but real. The fever must have caused it.

He'd think about the hospital if it didn't stop before morning. But now, he was too tired to make that long a journey.

His pitcher was low, but he was near the water. Stumbling outside, he filled it and took a huge drink. Then he retreated back to his bed.

This time he didn't dream. All he knew was a deep velvety blackness of despair. She was gone. Without her to call to him, to remind him of his lost life this one didn't mean anything.

But some time near late afternoon, he suddenly woke. She was calling him. The blackness was still there, but he could hear her leading him away from it.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, he took another drink to wet his parched throat and stumbled outside.

Standing unsteadily by his door, he gazed across the flat area leading to the blue line. She called from that direction. She was hiding-teasing him to come. Then a flash of brilliant light blinded him suddenly and when it faded she was standing in full view.

She looked small in the distance. But her call was strong and teasing and joyful. She wanted to show him some treasure she'd found.

Once, they'd walked across a field of flowers. She'd found one that was perfect and stood waiting for him to see it. She would not pick the flower and destroy it's life. She was too gentle for that.

Around her was grass and bright spots of color. Perhaps she'd found the flower again. They'd hugged and kissed and he'd asked her to become his wife that day. The memories of his joy when she'd embraced him filled his mind.

The space between him and her patch of flowers was green and beautiful. The air smelled sweet. The breeze was cool and birds sang distant songs.

Beyond that was greyness and terror and hunger. But he didn't want to be there now. She bent and turned, pointing at the flowers. "Come," she said. "It's wonderful. You have to see it."

The flower had been blue. He could see a smudge of red behind her this time.

"It's just like the other one," she said joyfully.

He was unsteady on his feet but the thought of touching her, of holding her close made him strong. He started to walk her way and she giggled.

"Hurry up, silly," she said.

She'd said that all the time. It was their joke. She sprinted and he plodded after. But today he'd run. He couldn't bear to waste any time reaching her.

He ran towards the flowers and the only woman who mattered to him in his life. The greyness beyond his tunnel was fuzzy and ignored.

"Surprise," he shouted.

He had a vague sense of bodies moving towards him, but they could not cross his barrier. Someone yelled for him to stop, but it was too far away to matter. He was full of energy, all the weariness and pain gone now. He pushed himself beyond his normal speed, wanting to hurry.

Something brushed against his leg, a little peg of some sort. Then a sudden flash of pain erupted inside his belly and he fell.

o0o

Jackson was out of breath. He'd nearly caught Cary before he reached the line, but a sudden sprint of energy had overtaken his friend. He'd sailed over the blue line, almost tripping on one of the deadly little pegs.

Then the guard had shot him. Close up, in the abdomen, Carl knew he'd die fast.

At least there was that.

But then Carl and all the others who had watched stopped their retreat. Cary should have been nearly dead, but suddenly he stood, shakily, and began stumbling towards a small pump station near the edge of the deck. Ignoring the warnings by the guards, he was shot again, this time in the upper chest. He collapsed, not moving now. Everyone froze as the guards casually tossed the body back over the line and Cary landed in a small thump in safe territory.

o0o

It had been such a long run. He didn't know how far he'd gone to get to her. But the sudden pain had stopped his quest. He wanted to lie still and beg her to come to him.

But she still had the flower to show him. She would wait. He thought he might be able to stand, though not long. Somehow he knew once she held him he'd be healed again.

It was hard to force shaking legs to be still. He was dizzy and everything was blurry. The pain was terrible, but still distant. It belonged in that grey world and he wasn't in that place. He stumbled towards her open arms, letting himself fall towards her grasp.

Another blast of pain ripped into his chest. This time he couldn't move. But she was there. She held him close and all the pain disappeared. He was too tired to move, but let her support him in arms so strong he was floating in air.

They rose off the ground. She shielded him as they settled softly into the dirt and the red flower sprung up anew in bright, brilliant perfection.

She whispered softly, stroking his hair. "I shall not leave you again."

There were voices around him. They surrounded him and yet they could not touch. She shielded him from the pain and the grey and the misery of the world he knew he'd seen the last of.

Safe in her arms, he didn't care anymore. She flowed into him and he into her and they were one.

Cary Larson had finally found peace.

o0o

Miles arrived almost as the body was tossed over the line. Jackson stood, pale and stunned, while others turned Larson over and were getting his blood all over them.

He was bleeding from his abdomen, and high on his right chest. Somehow the guards had missed his heart or he'd be covered in blood by now.

But everyone stared at the body. He should have been dead. At the very least, he should have been unconscious. But he was neither.

His eyes were closed, but he mumbled to himself. The words were unintelligible, but he was speaking to someone in his dream. He trashed a little when moved, but appeared to be in no pain.

But he was very weak. He wouldn't last long. The witnesses were trying to stop the bleeding, but even Miles untrained eye could tell it was hopeless. He'd die sooner or later and he supposed while in shock and without pain was better.

There was a noise behind him, someone yelling at the crowd to move. It was a medical team.

They didn't try to help him. Instead, they gently lifted him up to the stretcher. The medic stepped up to Miles, paper in hand.

"What happened?" she asked.

Miles deferred to Jackson. "He just started to run towards the blue line. I tried to stop him but he was all full of energy. I don't know where he got it but . . . . " he paused.

"He's still alive. Shock might keep the pain under control, but he should be out by now."

"He's been eating by himself," said one of the food people. "He's been pretty moody lately. Sick, too, but more than that."

"We'll check his quarters. Does he have any family here?"

Miles knew he didn't have long. Even if he couldn't hear them, his friends might want to say good bye. "No, but I'll get his friends."

Jackson shook himself out of his mood and was already searching. Several groups of people, mostly from the food crew, arrived immediately. They surrounded the dying man and Miles kept out of their way.

The medic motioned Miles to come. "Do you know what happened? He should be in great pain. He has a little fever but not high enough for this kind of delusions." Noticing the little pin that indicated his status, he added, "Sir."

Miles shook his head. "I didn't see it, but some of these people did. I'll have Jackson ask around. Will it be long?" he waved toward the dying man.

"I'm not sure. Normally he'd be dead by now, but this is very odd. Ugh, I have to have something to say in a report. I think you have to sign it, Sir."

"Sure. His quarters are over there. I need to know if anything dangerous is found."

The medic was called back to her patient, now barely breathing. Miles stepped a little closer, but did not intrude. They'd removed all the pseudo 'moss' from the upper deck, but as spring grew warmer, more new plants were sprouting. They'd have to check them all, just in case. They'd have to enforce more restrictions too, since the Vorta would not like that his soldiers had had to shoot. Whatever his game, he wouldn't want to look weak, especially not now.

He heard the medic tell the friends to say goodbye.

o0o

Lonnie had done a quick examination of Larson's body, still wondering how many more death certificates would list execution as the cause of death. But she'd read the report of his amazing strength at the end, and had already pulled her oddities file from its hiding place.

She still had no idea why patients with little or no infections suddenly turned ill and died, but suspected that Larson had managed to kill himself, however unintentionally.

A sample of some grass was found in his quarters. It *looked* like the spice but only lab tests could prove it. If it wasn't, he'd discovered the next pharmaceutical drug to grow naturally on Cyrus.

She read over the reports that witnesses had provided. He was depressed, missing his wife though he never mentioned her by name. He'd been sick but was much better. Then he'd eaten his lunch and slept. When he woke he ran with a determined burst of speed past the blue posts to death.

What had been going through his mind, she wondered? Did he know he was going to die? James had probably not really understood he was walking into a dark, deserted square to die. Sometimes people had had enough and didn't care anymore. But Larson had been hanging on. The food crew reported him to be studious and dedicated. He'd asked if he could start helping as soon as he was a little stronger.

She was convinced the grass was a drug. He must have been dreaming or out of his head with a hallucination when he ran. That could be a problem. Patients might have to be tied down.

But he'd been shot twice, both fatal wounds. He should have been in immense pain from either of them. But he was not. That was clear. He'd been locked inside some fantasy before he died, not recognizing anyone, but had been calm and comfortable. He'd bled to death from the second wound. But the drug had also taken the pain.

She fingered the bowl from which he'd had his last meal. Bits and pieces of the grass clung to the sides. She scraped them carefully into a tube. The grass samples were already in the lab. She take blood from the body, too.

Larson had died, but some of her patients might rest a little easier because of him. So many had died for nothing. This one at least had something to give back.

She finished the death certificate. It was just a week since the three Ag staffers were executed. She pushed the cause of death from her thoughts. The others would be remembered only in fading memories. Larson's name would always be known, the grass he'd discovered already named after him.

The year before they had put together a makeshift lab, and between the tricorder and the less modern devices that had come from Garnett's unexpected supplies had done fairly well with it. She bagged the bowl and her samples, taking a blood test kit along. Placing the paper in the box she kept on her desk for the death certificates, already with three besides the ag people for the start of the their official third month of this hell, she let it fall in place. Today, instead of dwelling on death, she would confirm a new discovery.

The lab always reminded her of the time she'd surprised Bashir and he'd told her about the disease. But she pushed all of that away and started the tests.

She couldn't spare too much time. But she had to find the answer.

The blood test showed a heavy concentration of some unknown drug in his system. The bowl samples tested the same. She started the test for the same drug in a pinch of the grass when a thought occurred to her.

Larson must have found the grass by himself. Others might have as well, and not used it. He had given his life to spare others, but there was no need for more incidents.

She pulled a clean sheet of paper from her file, and wrote O'Brien a note. He had to find the stashes of spice and take them. They were to go to the hospital. People would be reluctant to hand them over, so she suggested some sort of exchange.

Someone knocked on the door. She had an emergency to attend to. She scribbled the end of the note, giving it to the orderly.

"Make sure this gets to O'Brien immediately," she said. The first patient released that day would carry it back across the gate. There were several scheduled this afternoon, and if not there were others who could be.

He nodded and she rushed to work again, but this time with a little more hope.

o0o

Jaro couldn't sleep. Every time he shut his eyes, the Idea blazed a new pathway in his thoughts and he was wide awake again. He'd return to his notebook and scribble more notes. He feared some was being lost as he couldn't write fast enough to keep up with the rapidly maturing Idea. He wished again for a padd, or even better a computer interface. Perhaps, if the Vorta stayed in the room long enough tomorrow, he'd make the suggestion.

But Glebaroun stayed only a few minutes each day. Sometimes he didn't come at all. Aside from special requests, it was better that way.

He and the aliens who he already thought of as partners had spent the entire day, except for a quick break for lunch, sitting around the table in intense discussion of the Idea. After, sitting alone in his cell, he remembered how Justin had felt when they first began the secret tests-that heady feeling of urgency that had banished even his own deeply seeded sense of risk.

That was his world now. He still did not trust the Vorta, but understood that the aliens didn't either. They were very proper when he was in the room but relaxed a little when he'd gone. But Jaro had had a sudden flash of insight that day, and had explained in an excited rush to his odd friends. It had been a true breakthrough, and they would have met through the night if allowed. But the meeting had been cut short too soon.

Perhaps the Vorta knew how much they had accomplished that day. The dinner, eaten with his alien friends, had been a surprise of veklava, mode fruit and as desert a delicious tumway pie. On Bajor, such dishes were usually reserved for celebrations.

He had savored them. Even the aliens had sampled a little of the dishes, though they did not appear to be impressed. But despite the special food and the treat of not eating his dinner alone, the Idea was demanding his attention. As soon as he could sit on his mattress with his pad of paper, he was writing.

He could not bear to lose any of it. Each small detail must be recorded lest he forget.

It was still the same chemical process, but this might make it more dependable and simpler. He took separate pages to record the main points, then one by one filled in all the details. The light wasn't dimmed and he knew they were watching, but didn't care.

The Idea mattered more than anything else.

When morning came, his breakfast a Cardassian dish he'd become fond of was left to the side. He'd fallen asleep amid a great sea of papers, and carefully gathered them into an organized pile before eating.

But breakfast was eaten in a fog. He knew that some would consider him a traitor. Some would say any cooperation at all marked him for life, and perhaps an early death. But he had taken over more than Justin's work. He held the dream in his mind now, too.

This Idea would make it easy. Even Cyrus could become a garden when it was done. If the Dominion ruled Bajor now, it might make the dead soil live again even there.

The Dream would live. He must work hard to make it exist. Neither the food or the mattress or the Vorta or even the locked door mattered as long as the Dream was allowed to continue.

o0o

Shandra listened as the door opened. He was being very quiet, Tasha asleep. She assumed he would try to sneak in with her asleep again, like he had before. She'd let him, not wanting to make problems when they didn't need more, but now she felt she had to.

She didn't know him anymore. After dinner, he'd had everyone stay and ordered them, unless it was necessary, to stay inside the next day. She'd watched, especially the way they looked at him. Nobody would even open their door, she thought. O'Brien had given him full discression on his own. The man who'd smiled at meals had somehow been swallowed up by a stranger.

He slipped in their door, and she waited until he'd changed. O'Brien had asked him to come to the office after dinner, and that would mean breaking curfew. But in his official position, he was allowed to. She already felt the distance kept with her by some. It would just get so much worse now. He slipped into bed and she turned on the light.

"I'm sorry I woke you. I was trying to be quiet," he said.

"I wasn't asleep," she said, but he wasn't wearing his public face and she stopped.

"I wish I could tell you this would be over soon," he said, and instead of the face of authority he wore one of fear.

She wondered if he was relieved to be able to let her see. "I don't assume that, and I know you won't tell me what you talked about tonight, but I saw the way they were all looking at you. No, I don't think it will end. Not as long as they remember."

"Miles knows things, and he won't say, but this is starting to end all ready. I don't ask. But right now, the blue line matters more than that. I don't know what else to do but make it plain we'll enforce our own rules. If we don't everyone pays for it."

"I know. But you know they'll remember. It's not just you. It's me and Tasha too."

He turned away from her. "I've noticed the forms. There's almost two sets of them, like there's two departments who get them. Miles knows why but won't say. Someone went through the hill and did a census of all the ones they're holding. If they're the Vorta's people, why would they need one?"

"There's the soldiers," she said.

"He knows about them, too. I almost asked. But right now it's the blue line and the Jem'Hadar and more casualties that matter. Any ideas to get people away from it, I'll listening."

"Maybe stories," she said. "But be honest. They know we can't have trouble too, even if they don't want to."

He looked exhausted. She held him. But she knew there would come a time when he'd have to choose, and take a side and only hoped it was the right one.

o0o

Dorothy had finished her dinner, a watery broth with chunks of ration, and had finally been allowed to rest. She picked up her book but was too tired to read. But she needed something to distract her from the place which was invading her dreams.

The worse part was she no longer knew if it was day or night. The patient staff, like Ray, fed those who couldn't eat themselves, and it took a long time. She didn't even know how many days she'd been there. At least, she was improving. The little boy wasn't, the sickness lingering now. She didn't want to dream of this place, so she held her book, something of hope to keep her from drowning.

She was almost asleep when he came by to take the bowl. "Would you like me to put that up here?" he asked, tapping the book.

He looked exhausted. His wife was also improving at least. "No, I'll hold it. I'm too tired to read but its near at least."

She heard him pull up his chair. "I'm done with this. Would you like me to read for you?"

"If you would. Just for a few minutes. Page fifty, the first section."

He took the book, opening it to the page. He wasn't used to reading out loud and the meter of the poem was wrong, but it didn't matter. The words took both of them away from the dingy room.

"I've got time if you want to me to read some more," he offered, but he sounded different, better somehow.

"No, but if others might like it," she whispered, sleep ready to take her there.

"Tomorrow?" he asked as the smells and sounds faded away.

But she smiled, for there were different kinds of medicine, and Ray had used it to perfection.

o0o

He was floating above, not seen or heard, but watching every moment. Someone who looked like him was tied down on the floor. He cringed and sobbed and finally stared at the floor as his tormentors beat him. Duncan was the bug on the wall, watching and listening and remembering. In utter misery, he stayed distant from the huddled man because that way he could remember what they were asking.

It must have been very important to them to beat him so badly, when according to the hospital, they hadn't anyone else who'd been sent home to die. If those sent home to live had been, he knew he could never ask.

But they wouldn't be asking them the same questions.

Most of them were about fall, and the Winter that followed, and he and Sarah and the fiction which had become true at the end.

At first, of course, the men had just set it up as cover, as a relationship like so many others. She'd even brought her child. They'd watched and listened as ordered, but it had come to nothing.

Or, had it?

They'd brought in others, who had stayed, and Sarah and Gija. This 'mission' he had decided was bogus. But whoever ran it, they had plenty of personal information now. And they'd left their people behind. The same were here now, and if the rumor of strangers watching was true, they just might have someone to report to waiting for the right moment.

If they knew all that, then why were the Jem'Hadar and the Vorta so interested in what *he* had to say? Why hadn't they just sent him back to the hill and locked him up there? Why with his family? What did they want?

Sarah had gotten Gija settled, and come to bed. "I heard you took a few steps today. Very good." She leaned over and kissed him. "I knew you wouldn't give up," she said as she started to kiss him, but noticed. "Duncan, what's wrong?"

"Didn't take any steps, but I'm sure that's for tomorrow." He watched as she sat across from him, and he stared at her. "Why am I here, here not up on the hill with the rest?"

She started to speak,, but backed away. "I don't know. I'm just glad you are."

He kept staring at her. "Last year when you came, there were others too, who stayed. Why? What was the charade all about? Why are you here?" He watched her, studying her eyes. She was elsewhere. "Who are they?"

She focused on him. "I don't know what they were looking for. And they had particular things in mind. We never found a match, but maybe we did find what they wanted." She came closer, sitting next to the bed. "And I had lost my husband and was told I'd have a home here, with Gija. I figured out the story was just that early on. But it got me and Gija here. It's a whole lot better than where we were."

She was whispering, but lost in memories. "I'm sorry. I'm just trying to sort things out." He wanted to let it go, but he had to know now or he never could. "I remember their questions. They asked about you and the men and the charade. I didn't answer them, wouldn't because I didn't know what to say that would keep them from hurting you. And then they just started punishing me for staying silent and all I remember is the pain."

That day, with his new tormentors, he had had a harrowing day, told to stand and having to balance on half numb legs. They'd taken an arm each, but he'd felt like he was going to fall anyway. It was hard to face how weak he'd become. But somehow, tomorrow he's take a step. Maybe a few more with his keepers supporting his weight and balance. He'd laid in bed all day, again, and wasn't going to let that be his life anymore.

After his standing, they'd put him back to bed and given him more of the tea. Then he'd dreamed, with only enough to relax him and take away most of the pain, not knock him out. He didn't want it to look like he'd been laying in wait for her to come home, but then, maybe he had.

She said she wanted to get Gija in bed, since she had a cold. He watched, wishing he'd never ask. However they had met, with whatever intentions or past, he didn't care. He'd wanted to survive his ordeal so he cold come home to family.

Eventually she returned, sitting across from him in the chair, her hands knit together in her lap she was so tense. "You deserve to know. Just remember I love you and I hope you still do."

"You don't have to tell me," he said.

"No, I do. But there's things you can't tell anyone else. No matter what."

"I'll promise on my life," he said.

"Gija's father was a doctor, a brilliant man. He did research, and his specialty was genetics. His chief interest at the time were the children of two species. Of course, in order to do that we needed all the science we had. So we won't have anymore now. But he decided to study Bajor since the kids there happened on their own. Something about the Bajoran genome, he suspected. So we moved there shortly after the Cardassians left. Gija was born there, in a small village we lived in where he was doing studies of the locals." She got quiet, and he wished he could hold her. She'd never said much about 'before', but then it had become unofficial custom not to.

"You were there when they attacked, then," he whispered.

"Yes, a larger village, but there was an orphanage nearby. A lot of the kids were mixed and had been abandoned. I can't tell you just what he was doing since I don't really understand all the details, but he was on to something. But they came through and herded everyone, us, the orphans, and the rest of the village into this camp."

"Was there resistance?" he asked, her eyes staring at some other place.

"Not from us, but there was. We were put in this large building, they call them barns, and with matts and blankets lived with just what we carried. They fed us and made up work, but we were always hungry. We shared giving Gija more so she'd be stronger. But he helped people and they got curious about him. It was maybe six months." She stopped, taking a deep breath. "They made him an offer. They were making a new layer, officially organized collaborators to keep order for them. They wanted doctors and there weren't many left." She closed her eyes. "We talked. But we couldn't last long with what we had left when we fed her, and she wouldn't last or would grow up one of those pitiful stunted children. He did it for us. They put Gija and I in this nicer cage, since we were hostages, and took him away."

"The soldiers?" he asked, growing more curious.

"It's called CA. Central Authority. The first time I saw him he had on a blue uniform. He just held me. They wouldn't let me bring her. He said was going to get a promotion. Research. When he got settled we'd come. But he knew what that would mean. He whispered that he loved me, and he was working on 'mixed DNA' and if things went bad someone would look out for us." She slumped back in the chair. "I knew I wouldn't see him again. He had to be sabotaging his work. Or planned to."

"Why would they want to do that?" he asked, no longer thinking about his own problems. For there really wasn't any reason for them. They knew more about it than the Federation had. If they wanted to create their own speciality people they could without forcing anyone to help.

"I don't know, but it was a great priority. Something somewhere had gone wrong. And the next time he had on a black uniform. I hardly recognized him. But he was scared, I could tell. He gave me something, and I still have it. He said we would be transferred together soon. But he wasn't the same man anymore. His eyes were hard. But the only time I recognized him was when we were absolutely alone and he told me things would be all right for us. We had maybe a week together and he was called away and never came back."

"Is he dead?"

"Yes. They caught him. I don't want to think about how he died." She had tears in her eyes but spoke calmly. "Before they got us some other men came and put us on a transport. They gave us new identification first. The transport was beastly, but by then I knew. He had friends, like these men, who were working against them. We got pulled off at a stop, and by the ones who sent us here."

Stunned, he remembered how they'd been so convincing. "Were they this CA?"

She looked calm now, her voice no longer dragging. "No. Not entirely. Don't trust every uniform you see."

He shivered. "Do they know where you disappeared to?"

"They might. But they told me that you don't leave this place. I don't know why but the ones who saved us said they wouldn't come looking."

"What were we looking for then?" he asked.

"I suspect just what we found."

He took her hand and pulled her into bed, and as she settled next to him wondered if the nightmare would ever end. And what of the odd collection of information they'd found had been the most important. All together, it would say a lot. But someone official wouldn't need to do that.

And if they'd been looking for the right people to use, he hoped he hadn't destroyed their lives too.

"Were they good guys?" he whispered.

"For us. I can't say for anyone else," she replied, and for little while, as he finally relaxed into sleep, his own misery was only a little drop in an ocean.

End, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 11


	13. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 12

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 12

Miles calmly entered the room after the brisk walk to the office, avoiding any glances at the Jem'Hadar. A quick report of Larson's death had come from Lonnie Broadman, confirming the presence of an unknown drug he'd gotten from a grass. She'd suggested it had great medical promise, but warned it must not be gathered and used as a spice again.

He could still see Larson's bloody body lying in the grey dirt. Wishing she'd been able to notify him yesterday, the populace still deeply stunned from the day before and not likely to wander far enough for a harvest, he'd placed all the areas with vegetation off limits that afternoon. With a few trusted people, samples had been gathered and marked and sent on to the hospital for testing. He'd had a second set assembled, and it had gone to his new friends, in case she missed anything.

Michael had gathered the deck, and warned them as well. Emery still spoke softly, but only because you had to pay attention to hear, and knowing they meant all the promises, he wondered if all of them had been marked forever already.

All of the information and policy and tests had gone in his report. There could be no secrets. Even a sample of the grass was included.

But nearly two days had gone by, with no hint of trouble, and the Vorta had waited on the scheduled meeting. Now, it was time to face the music.

As he pushed open the door, he took a deep breath, hoping to keep his nerves under control. On the surface he was calm but inside a terrible fear was building. He must keep it hidden until he knew if there was reason.

The Vorta wasn't smiling this time, reading his report. Miles waited by the door after closing it. A few minutes later the Vorta looked up and studied his captive.

"Come forward," he was ordered. He was not asked to sit.

"This report is most interesting. I have authorized more samples of this plant to be gathered, under supervision, for analysis. If it is found useful, I will allow further exploration. However, that will have no bearing on the other matter, which is the reason you are here."

Miles remembered the way Larson died, locked into some kind of delirium, his breathing increasingly labored, the thrashing reduced to twitching, until he had simply stopped trying to breath. And Cary wasn't a stranger. And people snuck away with their bowls, even if they weren't supposed to, and he was sure, would sample the plants when they produced. It could have been any of them. It still could be. Most of all, Miles loathed Glebaroun for his coldness. The drug probably did have promise. But it had cost a life to discover it. And he worried that it could cost them much more. He took a deep breath, and waited.

The Vorta gazed at Miles, wearing a stern expression. "I'm extremely disappointed. Aside from the incident with the child your section alone has had a very good record. I thought you could be trusted with the extra freedoms you've been granted." He paused, his expression hardening. But he said nothing.

Miles felt his heart racing and forced himself to breath slowly. The Vorta and the Dominion were losing the other war, but might use them to stage a show of authority. The Vorta seemed to be studying him. "I have been considering my best option in this matter. I am issuing a warning this time. If there is another incident, rations for your section will be reduced. And in the case of a third incident, house arrest will be imposed. Is this understood?"

Both worried and relieved, Miles simply said, "I understand very well, Sir."

But then for them it would be the same. Michael had made the same threats already. The Vorta didn't have to issue his edict. But his was a threat. The other was to protect them from themselves, but it would come to the same in the end.

"Good. Now, I know the man was hallucinating. He was not in his right mind or he would not have run. But you had nothing to stop him. In order to assist you, I'm authorizing the formation of a your own special security force. Your first priority is to prevent any access to these plants. I am permitting your people entry into restricted areas near these plants to accomplish this. Your second priority will be to prevent the blue line being crossed. You may do this in any manner you wish. But I want no more deaths. Is that clear?"

Somehow, it confirmed what his new friends had said that the same creature who had deliberately had murdered random civilians as a show, and was still allowing more to die from malnutrition inspired disease, was suddenly taking precautions. But he would use it to any advantage he could.

"Very clear, Sir. We don't want any deaths either." It occurred to Miles that he could say that in complete honesty. It felt good. Perhaps the Vorta would give them decent medicine and enough food so the other kinds of death would be lessened, too.

He knew the likelihood of another runner too. And yet, he wasn't at all comfortable with the way it might have to be done.

"Then that is all," said Glebaroun in dismissal. Following the Jem'Hadar back to his office, he realized that it no longer felt odd to be crossing into forbidden territory. He had already begun thinking of names for this new "force" that he trusted. He just hoped that they didn't mind what it might make of them in other's eyes.

He was already the enemy. He had no choice. If only he could keep from spreading the poison to anyone else. But that was going to be impossible.

Thinking of the flower, the book still on his desk, he only wished he could tell them all that they were not alone, but given the compromise it would take to survive later, wondered if by then they'd even believe him.

o0o

Kira paused, the dull walls of the cavern having grown familiar, but the rock shifting color and texture from the pathways she'd traveled with Odo. While Narven had been distracted by a growing influx of refugees, and believed the occasional thefts were his new 'guests' doing, the time it bought she and Odo had been short. Except for his forays into the stocks, he had rested, and Narven hadn't suspected because he was too busy distrusting his Lions and watching the door for Blacksuits. But the stolen food had been hid along the trail beyond Narven's known labyrinth for the time they left him behind.

The trail of living goods to sell when the blacksuits came had been reduced to only the occasional desperate and scared, and she knew he'd sealed the door. The invaders would get in, of course. But he had chosen survival this time, and had a cargo of goods he'd been feeding and resting for them. No doubt he was relieved not to see her, since she might be tempted to remind him of his lost lofty ideals.

Then, without any notice, Odo having rested to the point he could walk out on his own, they'd shifted the last of the stolen goods to the other side, and sealed the way back in behind them.

That had been several weeks before. It had been a long journey, and despite the cakes, she was growing more and more hungry. She'd eaten what she could catch for as long as she could, but there was little. The rations gave her more strength, and by then Odo was traveling in his bucket, pulled along on the cart. When a secure place was found they'd stay an extra day. But by then Narven's cargo would have been taken and perhaps Narven too. They might have found the blocked tunnel. Narven might have told them about his missing guests. She'd shifted them toward the west, away from the main passages, but now she was almost out of food. And Odo had to rest so much of the time he frequently didn't transform when she stopped.

But she hadn't broken camp that day, their hideaway secure, and Odo had emerged, looking less than well but better. They were in a nearly sealed cavern, and a small fall of rock would finish the job. He'd awakened her, and held her and studied the rocky opening.

It hadn't been a long conversation. The air was changing in the passages, nearer open space. She must find food. And he hadn't had to say he must rest, quiet and alone. She knew he was dying. But he would rather die alone in the mountain, and she must find a place to hide, even if in plain sight.

She knew she might return in the months she might be gone to find him dead, or perhaps she would never know if someone discovered who she was. But it was the best option either of them had.

Moving west, for there was more chance of numbers there to hide among, her journey had been lonely. Even if Odo never left his bucket, she wasn't alone. But she rationed the cakes and followed the scent of fresh air, and was now very near a passage way.

She would reach it soon, and now was seeing debris left by others. When she found the way out it might be an end, or perhaps a beginning, but at least she would again see the sky.

o0o

Flowing freely in his secluded corner, Odo knew he would never heal. In the peace of his new retreat, he'd considered how things might have come to be this way. If all of his kind had grown this ill it would account for the odd turn of events, with the blacksuits and their having clearly assumed a measure of authority. His kind did not do things that way. In the solitude of the cavern, the memories of his last years had flowed freely, especially the joy of his discovery of his true nature. And the horror of finding out their nature. Unanswerable questions nagged at him. He remembered all the sensations of being a human, especially the delight of tasting food. And the wonder of freedom when the child had released him from his bond. But it was after his release that he'd grown ill. When they'd taken him into the link to change him, had they without intention incorporated their own disease into all of them? If he had not merged with the child, would he have come as a human? Was the sickness only for his own?

He did not want to die. He wanted to heal even as a solid and find Neres, to live no matter that it would not be as himself. But if he must die, before he wanted to know why.

His mind drifting in a sea of speculations, a loud sound disrupted his deliberations. Someone was pulling at the rocks. Before she had left him, Kira had dislodged a few of the larger rocks holding back the rest, and they'd flowed down, sealing him up. But still he pulled himself back, smaller and into darkness, and listened.

From their words he could tell that they were soldiers. They spoke standard as the orders were fired out by an officer, clearly not pleased. The tunnels split off into multiple directions, and their quarry had scattered. He knew they'd made it out of Narven's province to the neighboring one where he'd seen the sale of thieves and booty. But the populations had scattered there too, and from their words he believed they were simply holding those who came upon them in camps now. Something other than his own had made the decision, and understood the trap. The survivors were hungry, and apparently these traitors understood the value of a full stomach. Wary they'd search he pulled his mass into a small dense bundle requiring most of the rocks removal to find. But the officer had gone and he listened to the men. After they were sure he had left, the young soldiers seemed to relax. Mostly, they grumbled that camp duty was a lot more peaceful and simple.

It intrigued him. The silence of his hiding place had been lonely. Even if he did not change, Neres had talked to him, and told him about the day or her thoughts or fears. He enjoyed the young soldiers, and hoped they would say how they got to be working for this new side.

Checking the rocks for a hiding place, they gave up on the crumbled wall, apparently having concluded there was nothing to see. Part of him listened for their leaving, but his hiding place would be visited again and someone might force the broken pebble wall.

The officer had returned, gruffly ordering them to make camp. At first there was a flurry of activity, Odo slipping back under the shelf in his hiding place, but the officer left and it slowed considerably.

As if they were waiting for a fleeting chance of privacy, one moved closer to the other. "You hear anything yet?"

"I got a letter. That's usually a good sign." But the second was trying hard to believe it.

"How's your boy?" asked the first, Odo assuming a friend now.

"She says he's doing a lot better finally. And I heard they're shipping out a few units for a dirt colony. Might be us." If they were lucky Sisko and the rest were likely living in one. The soldier sounded hopeful, as if it was a reward.

Feeling more secure now in his hiding place, Odo listened to every small nuance. He could do nothing to help Neres, but allowed their conversation to divert his mind from the worry.

"Or they're deciding. That's what I heard." The first soldier was taking a more cautious stance.

"The ones outside are going somewhere," said the first. "They're just waiting for enough to get them packaged up. Maybe we go with them."

For a moment, he was afraid. If Kira was sent away, there could be no farewell. But then, the soldiers thought it was lucky and if so, he wanted her to share.

But they kept talking, working harder now, and he hoped before he died he might at least know why things had gone so differently than planned.

And he was even more sure that somehow this time, something had gone very wrong with the plans of his own kind, but too late for the rest, and perhaps now everyone had lost.

o0o

Julian couldn't dream. She would not allow him to. If he dreamed he might speak in his delirium of pain, and then she would put him in the box. There was always something worse, he knew, some fear or pain. He lay on his cot, perched on his side where nothing touched his back. He stayed still, trying not to move because that was agony. Each day he was put on the stretcher and taken to the room. He was laid on the table, hands and feet bound, and waited. The pain was so bad he had to fight to stay conscious but she didn't allow him to be hurt much more than he already was. The slave did as ordered. She didn't call him anything. But to her, Julian was just a thing, an it. He wondered when he would believe it too. Perhaps when he would allow the darkness to swallow him and take him away for a little while.

She already controlled his thoughts. He was sure the room was monitored. If he spoke or groaned or mumbled he'd be punished so he waited until the pain made him pass out to sleep, hoping for silence. There was no yesterday or tomorrow or even minutes anymore, just the constant agony, but it was no longer a struggle to stay silent. Instead, it would have been one to deliberately make a sound.

He knew they would come soon. It was always the same. He knew that he was giving her ownership but the alternative was unthinkable. The nightmares and delusions would steal away his control. The sides of the box would touch his skin. She would insure it would not tear because she had to keep him alive. But it would end that day. He didn't care if she won if it was over. He was going to tell them about the men and the stash. The other Vorta would own him then, but he knew whatever he wanted it would be easier than living through this.

She had not permitted him his time to speak the day before. She had not explained. But he was ready. It made every minute that passed since she had not allowed it worse because he did not expect them. If she denied him again he would wait until she allowed it. He was too tired and in too much pain to resist them anymore.

She already owned him anyway.

His leg lay bent, the foot twisted slightly. A lifetime ago that had been pain. Now it was nothing. He lay still, listening, anticipating, ready to end it no matter what it cost.

Time passed, tense and weary. He wondered if she'd known, if he'd muttered something when he'd been out about the confession. Perhaps she had made this last day a demonstration that nothing belonged to him, especially not choices. But Glebaroun wanted a confession. She might be able to delay it but could not prevent his choosing. He would still own a tiny piece of himself.

The noises came. The boots echoed on the floors and the door slid open. He was ordered to sit up. He didn't look at them, just obeyed. The pain was marginally worse but this was simply part of his existence now. They lifted him by the shoulders and dropped him on the stretcher, pulling at throbbing sores. He shut his eyes and clamped his jaw shut, but did not make a sound.

He was pushed onto the table, but she wasn't there yet. The Jem'Hadar left him where he landed and backed away.

He had his eyes closed when her slave brushed a hand against his. His legs had been bound and he was about to bind the wrists, but as he looked up he realized the slave was making eye contact.

Fascinated, he watched the gesture. One finger drawn diagonally across the lips. Silence. He was not to speak. Then, his hands where nobody but Julian could see he mimicked turning the prod to its lowest level. Julian understood. He was to say nothing. Anything would hurt, but much less than she knew. The mist and the waters could banish it. The prod would have to leave a mark or she would know.

Even if she didn't know, the slave would win that day. But even if it made his ordeal last longer, *he* would win too. The silence that day would be of his own choice.

The man before him could not refuse, but could deceive. He had ceased to be her slave, though she would not know it. Julian nodded imperceptibly. His hands were bound. He laid his forehead on the edge of the table and waited.

He heard her enter. His co-conspirator moved to the space where he would work, head down and waiting for orders. Or Julian imagined. She stepped up to him, standing back from the table. "It may speak if it speaks now. If it doesn't the charge will be doubled."

For a moment he was afraid. If the slave was truly a slave and doing her bidding, he knew he'd pass out and she'd wait until he was revived to finish. But the man's eyes, the hatred and shame and satisfaction he'd seen in them, were too strong. He didn't even lift his head.

"Double charge and fresh skin."

For an eternity he waited. If the eyes were lying it would be so much worse. He felt the cold tip against skin she had not yet had burned, between his shoulders. It would pull anytime he moved. He knew she could tell he was breathing harder but didn't care anymore.

"Now," she said.

The first jolt was large, the full one she had ordered. But it cut back and the tingling was just enough for it to look convincing. He drew the mist to him and felt the cool waters and it was distant. He had become accustom to pain, and this could be sent away.

She gave out her orders and the slave obeyed, every place it was pressed against injured skin so the pain was sufficient he did not have to pretend. But there was satisfaction. She hadn't won this time. She only thought she had.

The prod was ordered run over old wounds again but the throbbing was enough it didn't make much difference, and he found oblivion in his mist.

"Enough."

Her slave retreated. "It does not have unlimited time. It has three more days or more convincing methods will be used. But it will still be forbidden to speak.

"Finish now," she ordered.

He clamped his teeth together, anticipating the spray. It stung, antagonizing every damaged nerve ending, almost as bad as the prod itself, but only for a time. He was left while its layer of goo dried, almost certainly something which prevented infection. That would be breaking the rules.

He was released by the Jem'Hadar when they eventually came. They lifted him up and onto the stretcher, then marched him back to his room. He was ordered to sit while they brought the food.

Sitting tightened every muscle and pulled at the sores, especially the older ones which were starting to heal. His bowl was brought along with a spoon and it was slightly fuller than the day before, once again. Moving his arm to use the spoon made the new burns throb. He had not had so much to eat, especially since he was sure it had additional nutrition over the bars, in a long time, but now he saw it as a reward for the enduring the pain. If he spoke, would they feed him? He ate as quickly as he could, the Jem'Hadar watching closely, and finished, the bowl taken.

He stayed where he was until they left. Except they didn't. He hurt too much and decided he didn't care and slowly arraigned himself.

"It shall eat its meal more quickly next time or it will be punished."

He didn't listen or move. Tomorrow he wanted to confess, still, but now he didn't know if he could. He would not allow her to use these 'other means', if it came to making the choice, but could not forget the look of satisfaction in the slave's eyes. No matter how bad it had been it could have been so much worse.

Lying in his cell, the pain not faded enough to relax the muscles, he thought there was another way that would end this forever. Perhaps that would be better because this place would always live in his dreams, and a little of him would always belong to her. He did not know if he wanted to live with that knowledge.

o0o

It hadn't been hard to find the outside opening. Before she saw it she could feel the slight breeze which blew inside, a burst of air smelling so fresh she realized how used to the stagnant smell of the caves and passages she was had become. As she moved towards the open space, she passed other openings which were clearly used as passages. There had once been an ancient underground river system, and now it was a highway of misery. But with the other tunnels, at least it would be hard to tell which she'd come from.

Kira knew by now she looked like a refugee, left with nothing. She even was beginning to feel that way. Her hair, not trimmed since the invasion, hung in dirty hunks down her neck, and her clothes were well worn. All she carried was a bed roll and a pouch that had had food but was now empty of sustenance. At least she looked the part, she thought as she investigated the open bay which led to the outside.

It was dark, the night sky pitch black and the wind blowing hard. But she wasn't alone and the others had bedded down inside. Aware how strangers might be taken, she gave them room, but slipped closer to the circular opening as they watched her.

There wasn't much to see. But someone had walked up to her and she tensed. Neither was visibly armed, but she was sure he was too.

He looked her over, noting the blanket roll. "Dark at night. Camp out there, you stay in or they punish you. We were gathering food but got back late so we stay here tonight." He tapped her pouch. "But they feed you good. We have plenty."

Unable to decide if it was a trap or not, she decided she'd have to get past them to make it out to the camp anyway. "Ran out yesterday."

"You have a bowl?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, deciding he was checking her out but was no real danger. "What is this place?" she asked, remembering when she'd run from them instead.

"Transit camp. Soldiers run it. They'll check you in, and they even have a doctor. Of course they're afraid they'll catch something. They do well enough they get to have their families back so don't cross them." He was looking at her, now curious. "Where'd you come from?"

She kept it simple. "East. I lost the rest of them and kept walking. It's bad that way."

He seemed to be making a decision. "Say you came from here. Or up from the south. They had too much Trade in the East. They shot anyone that might have had something to do with it. Or sold them. Sold a lot of them off planet." He was Bajoran, but there was a mix of standard in his words. She guessed that things probably didn't go well for either Narven or the 'guests'.

Looking towards the group he'd turned her towards, she realized that only some were Bajoran. Others were human. It was most odd. "How is it, inside it?" she asked hesitantly.

"They feed you enough. They have a doctor. The slashies do their job. Not much choice or they punish them." He noticed her curious look. "They're soldiers. They use POW's, make them join up. But otherwise they get a lot worse than this. We're working for them and we prove our worth, we'll get to be slashed too."

Odo had seen them before, but she guessed they ranked above the trade goods, and given the choice it was survival.

"Any Jem'Hadar?"

He paused, thinking, as if he wanted to say it carefully. "Not anymore. We don't know why but at least the slashies don't shoot anyone unless someone orders them to."

A great wave of exhaustion was coming over her. This was the end of this journey. When she went to the camp it would begin a new one. "So who won?" she asked.

He must have decided he could trust her enough, and led her to a fire with a warmed cereal in a pot. She held out her bowl and it was filled, bits of fruit and spice added.

He led her to an area outside the main group, and took her bedroll, sitting next to it on his. His tone grim, he said quietly, "Nobody won. We all lost," adding she should pick a spot since there would be more stragglers.

She assumed he had come to decide if she was welcome and she had conditionally passed. "That's what I was afraid of."

But he had already spotted another new arrival and if he heard he had other things to do. She finished the filling bowl, wiping it clean with a cloth she would wash later, then stowing it again. Her stomach unaccustomed to the fullness, she could feel the tiredness. Since leaving Odo she had been walking past her normal time, and wrapped in the familiar bedding, dropped into the comfort of sleep and dreams, where even if he was not there, she would never be alone.

o0o

Carl watched as Rom fiddled with the spoon. Carl had caught him at lunch. He usually didn't eat it alone.

Rom looked relieved when Carl explained about the meeting. The little Ferengi had been worried about his wife before, and a little too preoccupied to concentrate. But she'd been sent home from the hospital four days before, carrying a note, and somehow Rom was even more miserable.

Jackson watched out for his boss. He had enough to worry about without the domestic troubles of the people he trusted getting in the way. Before Rom's problem with Leeta became the Chief's problem, too, he would do what he could to help.

"Leeta?" he asked, sitting down with his own lunch.

Rom looked miserable. "I don't know what's wrong. She was so glad to be home. She told me the hospital was all the bad memories of childhood she could remember. I tried to visit, but there wasn't any official reason to go there." He stared at the soup he usually passed up for lunch. "She didn't like the hospital. She doesn't like home either. Or maybe she just doesn't like her husband."

The little Ferengi started to tug on his ear in what Jackson knew to be a form of self comfort. He could guess she was keeping him at a distance.

"She's still sick. It's like a scene from hell there and they let people go as soon as they can make it on their own. She's *recovering*. It's hardly unexpected that she'd be cranky."

Rom stared forlornly at the soup. "She's not cranky. She sleeps a lot, but mostly she has made it plain she doesn't want anything to do with me."

Either Nog hadn't mentioned the earlier conversation to Rom or Rom hadn't been listening. "Didn't Nog say something to you about it?"

Rom tugged at his ear again. But he was clearly upset with his son. "Nog makes things worse. He stares at her and she stares back, but neither of them will say a word to the other. At least he talks to me, but she might not even be there."

Jackson tried to give him a hint. "Since when has she started acting this way?"

"Since she's been sick. I think. She was real quiet before that but she talked to me." He took a last few bites of his lunch. "Does she think . . . . " he said, looking confused. "If she thinks that I can get extras, just because I work here . . . . "

Jackson tried to be diplomatic. "I sort of doubt that. Actually, I don't think you could possibly be more wrong."

Rom actually looked at him. "Then, why?" he said, distressed.

Jackson considered his words. "This really isn't my personal business. But I want the Chief kept out of it." He followed Rom as they headed for the large tub of water to drop off their bowls. "She ate a lot of soup when she was a kid. And I'll bet some of her family didn't make it through to liberation. You lived on the station before that. What did the Bajorans think of their own who worked with the enemy?"

Rom looked up at him, shocked. "She *can't* believe that. Last year she didn't act this way."

Jackson gazed at the blue line and the Jem'Hadar standing behind it. "That was last year."

Rom stared at them, then dropped his shoulders and started to reach for his ear. "But we have to keep the food secure. I do this for us."

"So do I, but I've noticed that some of them out there don't seem to get the idea."

Rom was still in mild shock when they entered O'Brien's office, and Jackson hoped he hadn't picked a bad time to bring up the subject.

o0o

It was a very private meeting. The Chief had called in Jackson and Emery, along with a few others, but Rom was suddenly struck by Jackson's words. A select few sat in this office. An even smaller group were invited to this meeting.

They all wore last year's clothes, just so nobody could miss their position. He did his job for everyone, but the jacket was an unspoken rule now.

Maybe she was right. The Vorta told the Chief what to do, and he told them. Nobody asked the rest out there.

Now they were seated in his office, little doubt about the reason they'd been called. Everyone knew about the Chief's visit to the Vorta the day before, and how grim and silent he'd been since then.

O'Brien waited until they were all looking up at him before he began. Rom thought to himself that he'd learned a lot in the last weeks.

"First, what you hear in this room is private information. I don't want to hear any rumors, and keep this to yourselves. This includes your families, though it may well effect them. As far as they are concerned, it's your job."

Rom thought of Leeta. Would his marriage survive this? Would she leave him and call him a collaborator? To which did he owe the greater loyalty, family or the rest out there who wouldn't understand. He knew that someone had keep things running. A little of him was very proud to be of the select few entitled to attend.

But he loved Leeta. His marriage, so special to everyone as a celebration, was a greater victory for him. He never expected to hear her take him as a husband. But this could tear it all apart. Then he forgot about it when the Chief explained.

"There can be no more deaths. I don't know why he cares, but for the first one rations will go to a third. If there is a second, house arrest will be instituted. And I know we've already made that threat. But if *he* carries it out it takes our authority away. And we need that. And I know nobody here wants to see them kill anyone else, but Larson didn't want to die. He didn't know the guards would shoot him. We absolutely must prevent anyone from deliberately running the line."

Rom watched the others. Emery and Jackson had probably guessed, but Jackson had a hard, dangerous look in his eyes. Jackson hadn't been the same since they almost lost Calla.

"As to Larson, he was under the influence of some drug. We believe it is a new plant that hadn't washed down to this area before, and it wasn't found in the earlier survey we did last month. But it also looks very much like the spice grass that is so popular. But we can't let people randomly pick the grasses after this. This new drug possibly has important medical uses, but I don't want anymore suicide runs from it. From now on, the main grassy area will be on a limited access status."

Rom had tried the spice. It was all right, but he could live without it. They were using it in their food, but the taste wasn't strong. But he knew people would try their best to sneak up to the area and gather their own.

And the Chief had plans about that. "We won't restrict the use of the spice, but it will be gathered by people who can tell the difference. All plants will be tested first. This new one looks very much alike, and there could be others. It's also been suggested we make a few beds available to the residential area so people won't have to sneak where they aren't supposed to."

Rom hadn't heard O'Brien speak with such authority before. He didn't know what to make of it, but he was reassured.

Leeta could resent them all she wanted, but he believed that the job was so important it had to be done.

Then the Chief got to the heart of the problem. "We make sure people don't collect on their own by having our own security. Until everything is tested, suspect areas will be fenced off. We'll have it watched. And we keep runners from making it past the line."

Rom kept wondering how fully the "we" applied. Even he could see the way others would see them.

Then the Chief looked at them, all of them sitting across from him. "That is your responsibility."

Rom was stunned. He knew these rules would be taken as yet more signs of collaboration, even if they understood why it had to be that way. And those who enforced the new system would remind them of the enemy more than just surviving. Even the Bajorans.

The Chief wasn't asking if they wanted the job.

And yet, there was pride that he's been chosen. Trust mattered a lot to Rom. If the Chief had such faith in someone who was considered a failure by his own, it made the cost acceptable.

Everyone nodded. "Do you all understand?" asked O'Brien.

Each said, "Yes, Sir."

It was done. Leeta might hate him or grow used to his job. But he knew that it mattered and made him matter, too. Eventually, she'd get used to that even if she didn't want to.

The meeting was dismissed. Details would be released later, at a second meeting with more in attendance.

Rom was the last to leave the room. As he passed the desk, he watched the Chief. He didn't like what he had ordered, but had no choice. And for just a flash, he looked at Rom and let him see a glimpse of the pain trapped inside.

o0o

Kira was surprised by the orderly nature of the line. Everyone was being very civil. Those outside at breakfast had been fed first, and then they'd been sent into the line. Several others had wandered in through the tunnels that night, herded to the side area she had been placed, clearly being watched. She guessed that was why at least some of the men where there. In the morning, after eating they'd been given their paperwork to fill out, and told to get in line when they were done. But the valley was being watched too, others of the men moving in a group of refugees who had arrived in the surrounding areas. She assumed the camp was well known, along with the mountain tunnels. She only hoped that Narven hadn't told them that Kira Neres, former terrorist and more important to them, second in command at Deep Space Nine, had been there with a sick founder.

If he hadn't seen them leave his direction, that only left the tunnels.

She had no tag so they could not discover for certain, but she assumed many used false names. The fence looked solid and patrolled, though, which worried her. She still could get out, when the time came, but would give them nothing to notice in the meanwhile.

They were still gathering. But she would have to chance that they'd begin to empty the place without warning. There would be information there, especially with the influx of people from such a wide area. And there was food, too. If she got too weak, sickness would likely follow.

At the gate, standing back a little as old memories of another camp in another world filled her, the slashie just waited, motioning her in. Her bed roll was dropped in a box lined with a bag and a bracelet snapped around her wrist with a matching number.

The one large building had a double door, and she was sent inside the door marked 'females' in both Bajoran and Standard. She undressed as ordered, hearing the showers beyond. Washed, a soap smelling of some chemical all they had to use, she dried herself and took a clean set of pale green clothes, the same military style as the slashies in their grey. Dressed and clean, for a moment there was relief. The food she'd had the night before had been mostly a slightly sweet grain ground into small pieces, called 'mush'. But with a full stomach, it had been hard to sleep with the old memories of hunger she'd lived before.

Then came the tables, and a slashie with a form. She'd lied about both her name and origin. Able to speak Standard, she explained it vaguely. She already knew how she was going to explain. Some places had records, others only some. It had been one of the things she and Odo had passed the time with nothing but grey rock to look at during their journey.

A paper explained the rules. They were each assigned a place to sleep, and the section's schedule supplied. They required work, a fairly small amount, she thought, but given the numbers there wasn't enough for everyone. Sent to find her section, given another packet of supplies, she knew it was a facade, but just the same, a full stomach and a clean cot to sleep would buy a lot of loyalty if it was your children who would pay if you failed.

o0o

Rom spent the entire walk home, taking as much time as possible, thinking of what to tell Leeta. He believed that it was important to keep the Vorta's warning from coming true. And he was certain that nobody wanted anymore executions.

But the Chief's solution was going to look like something else. Having their own security was necessary for food, and he assumed people understood. But guarding a line of guns was far different. People would see more guards and greater control. Emery's threats were an bad, but they were just words. Not that anyone doubted that he'd carry them out.

Whatever it was, though, Rom would accept their judgement. Only a very few knew how absolute the Vorta's demands were. But Leeta would be drawn into the storm with him, and despite Jackson's cold indifference, he knew she had to have a choice.

He wanted to put it in the right words, but had never been good at that. He remembered how hard it had been to finally tell her the simple words that he loved her.

He was practicing a proper welcome when he approached home and forgot it immediately.

She was sitting in front of the door, still a little pale and weak, but most of all upset, then looked up at him and then away. He stopped, respecting her warning. "Leeta, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Ask Nog," she said, not hiding the hostility.

"You had a fight."

She said nothing, but was methodically grinding the pebbles with her shoe. Rom remembered what Jackson had said before the meeting, and knew he had to deal with it now.

She looked at the crumbled pebbles. "I don't want to talk about it."

"We have to do what we do, Leeta. It's important."

She must have seen the worry in his face. "Something about this meeting, you mean." The frustration showed. "And you can't tell me."

"No."

She knew how that worked, even if she didn't want to remember it. Looking him in the eyes, staring, she asked with resignation, "Why do you work for Them?"

The bluntness of her question took him by surprise, and he pointed at the door. Following her inside after her shrug of surrender, she had collapsed on the bed.

He could not stand it without her. But he could not refuse to do his job so he must make her see. Concentrating on the right words, after closing the door, he said quietly, "I have a special job. I can't say yet. But it's something the Chief trusts a few of us to do."

She studied his face for a moment. "That isn't what I asked."

"I don't. I work for us. All of us." He moved closer, seeing a hint of compromise. "And it needs to be done. You think the Chief likes meeting with the Vorta? You don't see what it's done to him."

"Maybe," she said, and he knew she'd never argue about it again. "But you like the power, too. You like being a little more important than everybody else." She turned her head away. "That's how it starts."

Remembering the Vorta's warnings, Rom felt his frustration turn to anger. "There is no power. The Chief gets told what needs to be done. The only choice he has is how. And I won't have you saying he is enjoying it," Rom said with venom.

Leeta was silent, and closed her eyes. "When I was a child, my uncle worked for the Cardassians. I know what it cost. But I know what people saw, too. Rom, you don't have to. They aren't making you do it. Please, you don't know what people will see when they look at you."

Rom already understood. But it wasn't going to change anything. He'd made a promise to the Chief already. "I know. But the Chief needs people he can trust. It's . . . important. You'll see, in a few days, but . . . . "

She looked at him, "Larson?" she asked.

He just nodded.

"And no matter what, you won't quit." she said, resigned.

"I can't. I promised."

"I still don't like it. I wish I didn't understand," she said.

"I know," he replied. "But I do. Would you rather it be the Jem'Hadar?"

She stared at him, a war inside her. He knew she hated his new job without even knowing what it was. But she could show it anymore than he or the Chief could. And she didn't want to be alone. He didn't think anyone could for long now. She looked away, and when she returned her gaze she wore a look of grief and enormous regret. "No," was all she said.

There were a few things he had to do. He guessed she needed to be by herself.

"That's why," he said,

Leeta didn't reply, but rolled away from him and he thought he heard her crying when he left the room.

o0o

Megan had finished folding and sorting the work uniforms, stacked on a shelf by the door. The laundry bucket they'd come piled into had been emptied and returned. But she folded them neatly, and by size, and placed the heavy thick socks worn inside in the box.

She was finished with her assigned duties, and at first had gone back to wait for Dan to be done. But Dan was different now. Since the day they arrived, Dan had found his place in their world. Galen liked him, but anyone who wanted 'in' had to prove themself, and he'd done anything he was asked, even if it was past his owed. Lately, he'd worked with small groups, and been in charge, knowing the job would be done properly.

Megan had mostly just done as she had to. It was enough. Since they'd been locked inside the shelter at home, she'd shown a talent for surviving. But with *him* it had backfired. She felt safer just being one of the crowd.

But Galen was giving Dan increasingly better jobs, and she knew they were watching her. And it really wasn't that hard to do better, especially in their barn, for their own. So she'd started by small steps to be noticed. They had been there almost a month. The bugs, especially the fuzzies, were exploding in numbers, and the military slashies didn't want them everywhere. Since the bugs preferred soiled clothes, they now collected and washed each days clothes, and she had the opportunity to play hostess, dropping the clean clothes into the laundry bag for them so they'd stay clean before they washed.

Now, boots were removed and lined up by the door. Another rotating duty was to clean off the dirt and place them back, but it went to the disciplinary cases. Galen and his people had rules, and they fully enforced them. So did Dan when he supervised.

It all worked because everyone respected Galen's authority, and some, like Dan, had found a place to belong.

Dan slipped in, wet and dirty, and she showed him the uniform, one that was new, and dropped it in his bag. "He wants you to come to his matts after dinner," she whispered. Dan's eyes lit up with anticipation. She had a suit for herself 'reserved' which was also new, just in case she got asked too. It wasn't that she expected to, but Galen would be watching. Dan wanted to be one of Galen's circle, but she'd just to be useful.

Someone took her place dispensing clothes, and she went to wash the dust from the day in the warehouse away so she'd be as clean as her clothes. It was her turn to read that night, and for a little while, all would fade. She could go to a different world, and Dan would begin his journey into their own. It was really just a barn and their only value their labor, but when the door shut it became a community. For then, for her, that was going to have to be enough.

For Dan, she understood, it was a new beginning.

o0o

Julian was awake when they came. The day's pain before had been not so terrible that he'd been unable to think. If the slave would not agree, he'd talk. He would not let her use these other means because he was too afraid of them. They knew what he feared and was sure it would be worse.

But if he did the ordeal would be over. The moment of agony would be terrible, but brief. If the slave didn't go through with it he would talk the next day. He didn't know which of the bad choices he had would be the best. But it had gone on too long.

The door opened and they entered, and he watched as they lifted him, the wave of pain from his shoulders causing him to breath in short gasps. They didn't notice. If by some odd chance he got back to Cyrus, it occurred to him he'd carry the scars. Before, when he'd been taken from home he'd looked the same, but nobody knew he was really a stranger.

This way no one had to know. This way, he'd never have to force a word or hide the shame that he was someone's property. This way he would be set free.

They hauled him into the room, and ungently deposited him on the table. He tensed from the pain but the only indication of how bad it was were his eyes. The Vorta had not come in the last several days until all was ready and the Jem'Hadar paid no attention as long as he showed no sign of resisting. It was left to the slave to set the stage for the torture.

He was waiting, binding the legs first as always. Julian had arraigned for his arm to be caught under him so it would have to be pulled out. He moved around the table, pausing before he bound the hands, waiting for Julian to look.

He gave the sign for silence. Julian nodded a tiny nod, then grabbed his hand.

The slave did not react, but he could feel the tension in his arm. He spelled out the letters inside his palm. Up, full power. Kill

The slave did not pull away his arm but Julian let him go. He took Julian's other hand and bound it. Then looked down, a nervous energy in his eyes. He drew his finger across Julian's throat, nodding. Then mimicked the gesture, pointing at his own.

Julian grasp the hand and saw the look of recognition in his eyes. The suicide pack was agreed. It would be the end that day for both, but then they would be free and would not belong to this place anymore.

Julian laid his forehead down on the indention and his hand was bound. The slave moved to his position.

He stood for a few minutes before the Vorta arrived. She didn't waste time. "It can speak now."

He said nothing, just breathed a nervous breath. If it fell through, there was tomorrow, he told himself. But now, he didn't want it to. To speak was survival. To die was victory and freedom.

"It refuses again. It will be given ample reason to reconsider tomorrow then." She moved towards the door, calling the slave. For a moment he feared it was planned, but the eyes had not lied. She wanted him to be surprised. Perhaps she wouldn't catch on as quickly. Or he hoped.

His mind was caught in doubts and fears, but it was too late now.

The slave entered, taking his position. Julian tensed despite himself. He knew the waters would not contain the pain, but it should be brief. If he did scream it would not matter anymore.

The probe was lowered to his spine. It was below his hips, and a sudden surge of ... tingles ... sent him twitching as it was raked up the spine. The slave must have altered it so he could set it lower than it was supposed to be.

But suddenly it was pulled up and jabbed just below his neck and the power stitched to full. It was pushed into his spine, and for an instant, before there was none, the pain was indescribable. Lying collapsed against the table, he could sense the muscles relaxing, now uncontrolled. But there was no feeling at all. The slave was trailing the probe at full power up and down his spine, his body jerking a little but she could not touch him anymore.

Details around him began to fade as he felt lightheaded, as if it was hard to breath. He was sinking into some quiet, dark safe corner and everything was becoming misty.

From a great distance he heard her order, "Stop immediately," but there was an edge of surprise and fear with it. As he struggled to breath, his body lying limp on the table, there was rifle fire. Then came a blessed and quiet blackness, and the last fleeing thought that it was finally all over.

o0o

Miles held the second meeting he'd planned in the afternoon. Jackson and Emery, as his personal staff, were required to be there but the rest were excused. Instead, a second group was present, those who would later directly enforce the policy. He gave them few details, mostly because he wasn't sure what they were quite yet.

E'Char would only come when he was alone, and he needed to talk to someone about what he must do. Already, the official titles and authority which he dispensed were a problem, and he wished he could work as Jadzia had, solely on the aura of confidence she somehow managed to convey. But Miles felt no such confidence. All he knew was rules and responsibility. He fell back on the experience of too many years as chief engineer.

Now he was fixing people's lives instead of machines. He often dreamed of finding this new resistance and joining with them, maybe just keeping their ships running. But there was no visible resistance and no ships. Or he hadn't known, not then. But now, his role would be to hide, and wait. And at the end, if he succeeded, was a family that he might see again.

He could live with the image he was making for that. And just as Sisko had tried to warn them that this would come if they did not behave, he understood how much worse it could be if there were more problems.

Sisko was gone now. Did those who hated him before have second thoughts? Or did he and his staff only renew the memory of the end, when they had become another enemy.

If they were to again, he had to be sure of his staff. Most were dealing with it well enough, but Nog was preoccupied.

"If there's a problem, let me know. I know a lot is being asked, but it has to be. If you have family problems, solve them or tell me. Do not let them interfere with your job."

If Nog wanted to talk, he'd have a chance.

Miles continued, not bothering to waste words. "I know everyone here is aware of the death of Cary Larson three days ago. His will be the last. Those of you in this room are going to make sure of this."

Looking at them for reaction, he noticed Nog was now paying close attention. He continued. "What you will be doing is watching for runners. Each of you will have a specific location assigned to you. Your duty is to watch from far enough back that they can be stopped first. I don't know if anyone else has gathered their own seasonings, but should it happen again it will not end the same way."

He watched for the reaction again, noting a few nods. "The other duty you have is to remind people to stay back from the line. Now, you aren't guards. You are to be polite. But I don't want anyone, even accidentally, endangering themselves. Is this clear?"

He studied them closely. Each of them nodded. He hadn't chosen a large staff, but he trusted them all. Emery came forward, holding a stack of papers. "You'll pick up your assignments from me after the meeting."

They stood, unsure of weather they should go. Miles dismissed the meeting. Each of them went to Emery for their assignment and left, except Nog.

He was waiting nervously by the door, and Miles quietly asked Emery to leave.

"Something to discuss?" he asked the young Ferengi.

Nog came up to his desk. "Sir, I have a question. It isn't about the assignment."

"Yes," said Miles, curious if this had anything to do with his domestic problems.

Nog hesitated. "I would like to find different housing, Sir."

Miles wished he'd stay with family. Only those with family that were gone could understand. But if Nog was as miserable as he looked, it wasn't going to help.

"Hmmm. I'm not authorized to change it, but there will be special quarters for my staff, since you might be called on late. Do you want to move there?"

Nog looked relieved. "Thank you, Sir. I will pack my things today."

"Just let Jackson know so he can set it up. He's keeping track of that sort of thing. And I hope you can work things out." Nog nodded and left, and Miles wished he could tell the young man to hold onto his family. But he supposed that somehow he would learn that lesson himself.

o0o

Lying in his probable tomb, Odo had allowed himself to flow into the space. The slashies had succeeded in opening a sufficient hole they could see part of the old store room, but there was nothing there. He'd expected them to go, but instead they'd returned with more, the place to become a supply station now. That had changed his expectations. Kira, once she was in the camp, wasn't likely to come back. He had been at peace with it, but the rest was restoring even more of his strength than he'd hoped. And the soldiers liked the small hiding place they'd made to talk. They'd been taken from two different ships and one earlier than the other but were friends. The officer didn't stay long, and there was a nervous edge in his voice. He didn't like the close quarters. He wouldn't be around much. The soldiers were more likely to talk that way.

For Odo had been at peace with his death before. Now, hearing their whispered conversations, he could not be. Many took the slash, and, he thought, more would if they knew, if it didn't have to bind them to their masters. These two were keeping track of information. He didn't know who it was to go to, but they did. They would slip up and he'd know. But he wouldn't betray them. He could hear many other things. Resting, he'd last much longer. Once, he could have slipped in as anyone, but now he thought he could change to simple animal forms without fuss and disappear. There they would live in the tunnels. Of course, they were also food so any moves he made would be done with care.

Outside, they said, it was dark. They'd found more wanderers and taken them to the camp. So either she had made it or was watching, but there would be few places to hide. He missed her already. Then they stared to complain. The supply drop would stay, and they were assigned its security. There would be more with them, but since they'd opened the wall, something small which could climb, in the dark, would be manageable in a week or so of rest. He'd leave his tomb, and let them take him, for then hidden in the cargo, and then later in the camp. And if there was a way, he would say good bye to Neres and as his legacy, pass on everything he'd heard to whoever these two slashies trusted enough to do so as well.

It wasn't that he was afraid of dying, just dying for nothing. Now, perhaps, he wouldn't have to.

o0o

Leeta was by herself when Nog returned, an hour before curfew. He announced himself at the door. "I don't want to argue. I'm just packing. I won't make things harder for the two of you." Leeta opened the bedroom door and stood, eyes red from crying, but said nothing. She watched as he packed his personal things.

Eventually, she came into the room. "I guess you'll want the bed."

She said it so quietly it took him by surprise. "No, there's one available. We have an area available for my crew with all we need."

She didn't glare. She simply asked, "Your crew?"

"You'll all know in a few days."

She nodded. "Rom already knows. He didn't say why, but told me I have a choice."

"You do. He doesn't."

"I'm staying." She looked miserable, but he guessed she would choose isolation over being alone. "You don't have to do this. We talked. Neither of us want you to go."

He finished packing. "No. I have to. You two need some time."

He wondered if he should say the rest and decided against it. His father was part of the senior staff. He deserved his own quarters.

It was getting late. His friends would be waiting. "I'll tell Dad. And I'll visit, if you want."

"We'd like that," she said, a little hesitant.

He heard a baby crying, and she moved towards the bedroom. "I guess you leaving is at a good time," she said, coming out holding a small baby, with a thin cry. "Dasa went up the hill today. She was so sick that they said we should plan on taking the kids for a while. I guess we'll be needing the bed."

Dasa had lost her husband in Winter, and barely survived the pregnancy. Leeta had helped as much as she could, but he guessed things were very bad this time. "Where's the kids?" he asked softly.

"With the sitter. But they need someone to take care of them until she," she stopped.

"You haven't told Dad?"

"No."

"I'll tell him he needs to come home," said Nog.

"Thank you," said Leeta, but the baby had settled and she was feeding him with a bottle.

Things had changed for all of them that day, but his father didn't know how much for them.

She was only paying attention to the baby and he fled.

He wanted to not abandon them, but once he sat by the line, he knew things would be very different.

o0o

Nervous, Dan watched Megan as she and the women moved towards the reading. They'd been honored with a surprise invitation to eat at Galen's matts. He thought she'd finally started to understand. But Galen and several of his people were walking towards the back storage area, now used for his 'office'. Only those working with them or by special invitation were allowed. Curious, he didn't see any sign of a watcher but guessed there was. Either the rest respected or feared their leader enough to obey the rules, or perhaps they were just so used to it they did out of habit.

For Dan is was such an honor he would remember it for a long, long time.

Inside the storage area, it was as plain as the rest, except there was a divided section where cargo could be stored and locked in small rooms. They made their way to one of them, and to his surprise, there was a table and several unmatched chairs.

It was odd how it could feel so strange to sit at a table and not on the floor.

Galen watched him, his look grim. "Your former residence has had the judgements completed. They executed some, ratted some and slashed all of them. Most are being shipped to the more remote areas, but there were some who behaved. We get them. They are your responsibility because you came from there. But I want it to be more direct and official."

Dan didn't know if he should ask, but didn't know which of the places they meant. "Was this the refugee area? Or the last barn?" There, he hadn't liked any of them, despised most, especially those running it, and yet there were families and children and some who were just trying to go on. He had expected that, or worse, but not that he'd feel it so much. "We took orders from them, that's all. I didn't really know most of them."

"The Barn. And don't lie. You should know the rules. I'm sure you knew some. And the ones that just go to another barn or here are the lucky ones. They really mean it about Trade. If anyone here becomes associated with it, you know the rules."

Trade had been used by some to make up for the shortages, but none of the places he'd been. And there would be no future for anyone without rules, and he knew in their world all of them would be absolute. He only hoped none of them were going to try. Sometimes people didn't make it back inside in time. They were shot. And sometimes they were thrown out when there was no time to find a way back in. The night guards, not slashies like in the day, considered it a favor and overlooked other things now and then.

"I do. You mean if I find out anything I tell you."

"We have to take them, but they'll have to buy their way in. But you are their watcher. They work with you, take your orders. The slashies outside will know so they'll let you. You decide when we officially admit them to our society. Until then, you let them be what they made you."

Dan remembered the corner, and the way he'd got Greson to leave him alone. It wasn't that simple. But then, Galen knew that. It was holding him to a standard as well, or he was vulnerable. "I can do that," he said. But without hesitation, and Galen nodded.

"Good. They'll be here tomorrow. You'll be told to wait. The slashies know where they go so they'll give them to you."

For the first time, he wondered just how much was shared between Galen and the slashies who technically ran the Slashed Compound. Far more than suspected, he thought.

"Sir, I'll do my job, but I have to ask. There is something to believe in here. When you think I'm ready, I would like to know."

He studied Dan. "And you will. Tomorrow might be a long wait, but we'll never quit believing its day will come."

Dan remembered the way his father had backed down, away from the local Maquis sympathizers and their planned sabotage. He'd always thought it was from fear, for himself and the family, but wondered if along with the passionate belief, he understood reality a lot more than his son had ever noticed. Just like if Megan's suit ever got the revenge he craved, the only real satisfaction would be his. The rest would pay for it. But in the small society within theirs Galen and likely others were making, quietly acting behind a curtain, would change everything. For him, it already had.

"It's been a long time since there has been anything to believe in, Sir, but I don't need to know the details. You've already given us back our lives."

The man just watched him. "Good. But remember, they don't pay much attention to you, since you're just a civi. Civislashies are only worth the work you get out of them. If we keep things quiet and the orders get filled and the quota gets met, they won't look. But just the same, if they see you as you look now," he stopped.

Dan remembered the small miserable existence before he was forced into Starfleet. "I know about that. Other side of the line, but I know. We just wanted them to care if we lived or died as the line kept shifting, but they called us troublemakers anyway. Well, especially Dad."

He kept looking at Dan, as if he was recognizing something else. "Merriman, I knew someone by that name. Very vocal advocate for the Maquis. He didn't like Federation policy and said so often. Would you know anyone like that?"

"My father. He wrote letters, he led discussions. He never pretended he thought any of it was legal."

"And in the end, when they could stick you on a transport and get you past the line, they didn't. Right?"

Dan summarized things, but the memories were still very clear, and so was the sense of betrayal.

"I'm sure I spoke with him, before the war. Just remember, the ones who pop out as different are the ones they remember. Here too. So just be a civi here. Do your job. Take the orders you get. Never stand out."

"I will. It's just that here, I expect it to be that way. When it's your own, and they abandon you, then you'll never really forget."

His new superior, for he was now one of Galen's men, even if barely, was watching him. "Wait. Do you swear on your life and that of your family that you will do nothing to betray yourself and us and the commitment we hold to taking back our world?"

Dan was surprised. "I swear. I'll be a good civi for them if I can know it's a lie where it counts."

He took out a small knife, pricking his finger, dropping a few drops of blood on a paper, then handing it to Dan. "This seals it. We take these promises very, very seriously."

Dan did the same. The paper was folded away. As they left it was dropped into the chute where trash went to be burned.

Dan found Megan and a young woman talking about the book, and said he was tired, and she followed.

"What changed?" she asked.

"Everything," he said, looking at his marked hand, "And then nothing."

She looked at him oddly, but then she knew never to ask. But to Dan, the world that had been, the one on the other side of the line and the one he'd been trapped in here had faded into one, and the promise he'd made had given him a reason for each day to come.

In the name of his father, who would have understood, he vowed they'd win, and when that day came, he'd honor the man who had given him the gift of dreams.

o0o

Miles was preparing for bed. E'Char sat silently in support across the room. Now that it was done he felt a little better. E'Char didn't like the idea any more than Miles, but both knew there was really no choice.

"Talanora, remember them," said E'Char. "We are lucky. We must preserve that luck."

"I know," muttered Miles, "We still have some value to the bastardy."

E'Char nodded. "You do not believe this will be over some day."

Miles couldn't cope with tomorrow. It was a night's sleep away. Another runner could bring back the thirds. A new outbreak of disease could come. He didn't want to know. Tomorrow had become something to dread instead of plan for.

"I don't believe in anything."

"Yes, you do," said E'Char, and in his head Miles was holding the red dress.

"They're probably dead," he said.

"You don't know. You *can't* know. And until you are told they must be alive."

Sometimes E'Char was annoying. He wasn't in the mood for a peptalk.

"Even if she is, would she want anything to do with me now?" he asked.

"You survive."

He looked across the room towards the door which led to his office. The main room had become a meeting area. "I know. So do they," he said, sweeping his hand around to indicate his neighbors. "But they'll never see it that way. Maybe that's what this is all about. Maybe we'll be so trapped in this when they leave we'll know how much he owns us."

E'Char stood and touched his hand. "No. You only are owned if you allow it. In that dungeon we did not let them. We could not control the things they did. We could not open the door. But we could make a place within ourselves they could not go."

Miles pulled back his hand. "But I killed you. That changed it."

"Perhaps it was destined to happen. And now, here, you would know when you had passed beyond that moment. You have not. Do not torment yourself like this."

Miles looked at the sand that spread before him. E'Char sat opposite, and both extended their hands. "We paint together tonight."

The sand was formed and reformed. The night sounds of wind and quiet were all that was left when he finally drew his last figure in the sand.

E'Char took his hand. "I go now," he said, and the sand vanished.

Miles was sitting on his bed again, the covers ready to wrap around him.

But there was one last thing he must do. He picked up the small paper he'd saved of Jeffrey's drawing. It wasn't his child, but could bring them closer.

Lying down, the picture under his pillow, he was holding the red dress, and the toys were wrapped within. Lying still, he closed his eyes and a little of her was there.

He dared not bring his family. He could not bear to have them disappear in the morning. And if anything of his things survived, he hoped the toys and dress had been saved.

Before he'd left Rom had come in to tell him Nog had moved. His family had taken in the children of a neighbor, the woman not expected to live. Rom had looked in shock, the sudden difference in his life not yet realized. Miles had just nodded. Rom and Leeta were not happy, and she resented what her husband had become. But she had not left him. And he would have a family to consider now. Maybe, when, if, Keiko came back she'd not just walk away.

Tomorrow, if he could, he might find a moment to tell Rom he must be strong, and remind him that he was lucky to have the woman he loved next to him. And to love the children now in his care, for he was lucky. He wasn't alone.

o0o

Keiko took another of the rations and tore it in quarters. They were watched. The pot was weighed with the water in it and the rations and if they did not weigh in properly before dinner the crew and their families missed a meal.

Nobody was pretending now. The rows for the farm had been dug. A fence had gone up around the farm and a separate one, this three layers deep with a lacy wire in-between which was electrified, around their compound. Crews still went out for work, but far less. Half the unit had been 'transferred' in a filthy transport with no warning, and the residents worked mostly inside now.

The commander had somehow escaped the deportation. But he knew it was coming and wasn't even trying any more. And despite their fence, a way out had been found and children disappeared during the day. The smugglers still paid well, but now that the commander had everyone's meals cooked together, even the survivors of the unit, they got other things which could go with you and be traded elsewhere.

Molly and Pashe had long ago ceased to be children, but now they seemed, sometimes, more like animals.

Mail had also ceased. Rumor was the men had been moved, but nobody knew where. And when they were sent away the chance of ever seeing husbands and fathers was very small. Keiko had begin to wish she had written Miles, even if she despised him. Maybe on his dirt farm they were as hard pressed as the local unit, who no longer seemed so terrible now that they had been marked with the military slash.

But she took the cubes and quartered them and dumped them in the pot, forcing herself to think of dinner and not that the children were late. Nobody who wasn't involved knew where the 'hole' was but did that it could disappear. It was probably the front gate, now that technically the unit was lower in caste than their prisoners and easily bribable.

She was half-way through her vat, when one of the slashies tapped her on the shoulder. "There is someone here to see you," he said.

He was young, and also wore a conscription mark, likely a POW. He'd end up on a dirt farm eventually and maybe if he was lucky it would be good enough he would gladly call it home. She followed him through a corridor to a small office where he knocked and waited until the door opened.

Curtly told to wait, he stepped back as the blacksuit told her to sit. "Mrs O'Brien, we had trouble finding you. It seems the records for this place were lost when it was converted. But I think you know you don't have to stay here."

She stared straight ahead. "I have no husband," she said, loathing the slick, neatly tailored suit. The local unit, even the commander now, wore nothing but fatigues.

"He has been doing well at his present residence. We would like to reward him with a gift when things are finally settled there. The Vorta is not giving up but he can't last much longer. And I can assure you very soon this place will cease to exist. When the transports come, you and the unit will be loaded on and moved. I've ordered tracking on you and all the children so we don't lose any of you. But we will be back. I know two of your children, one Mr. O'Brien's child, are involved in smuggling. They'll be wiped out before the camp is to make sure we have a clean start. I can take you and your children out of here today, this afternoon, and not on one of those pest infected transports you and the rest will go on. I'd like to have you see that CA isn't your enemy. I can assure you that most of those here, even the unit, would gladly agree with me if it got them out of here before doom."

She thought of Molly and Pashe, and how they had withdrawn from even their family. Pashe had a hard mean look in his face, and Molly had once come back with blood on her clothes, but not her own. Perhaps, she thought, it would be perfect justice if these were the children he met and he could see how much they loathed him. The smaller children still held some measure of a meager childhood with Te'Salle's safe haven, but even that would soon be gone.

And she knew, if the camp was involved with the smugglers at all, at the minimum, they would be slashed, perhaps with the undercaste which was quite literally made them animals.

There was a clarity about the moment she had not had before. She had no desire to go to this dirt farm and have to see his face, but she could make life hell for him, and he'd never forget when he looked at his children. And she didn't want to die. Since she was sure there were far too many cakes for the payment of his unit and their charges, she was sure a fairly slow version of that probably awaited most of those there.

But if what she'd heard was true, they wouldn't necessarily make sure first. A lot would suffer who hadn't done anything. If she was going to make a deal, it should mean something. "Not right yet," she said, and he actually looked surprised. "And I have conditions."

"If I wanted to I could take you anyway. You know that. You have no room for conditions."

"Quite true, but people have been known to die in transit."

He looked at the unequivocal look in her eyes they'd put there the day they killed Marka.

"What sort of conditions?"

"When you purge the unit, don't eradicate all. There is a woman named Te'Salle. She takes care of the children. Save her and her husband and anyone not smuggling. I'm sure most here do not participate. Execute the smugglers if you want. Spare their children. This applies to the unit as well. But they are just slashies now anyway so maybe they'll pay better by staying alive in their little ghettos where you send them, as witnesses. To be less than a slave is worse than death."

"You are risking your children's execution," he said.

"They aren't children anymore. Perhaps wild ones, but you made them that way. And I think you will not kill them. I think you'd prefer they go to this dirt farm and reward my husband over that."

"Perhaps. We do know who is involved and who is not. Perhaps we should elevate you to a greysuit and allow your negotiating skills to be of some use."

"Just because I learned to survive? I think not. Beware of greysuits who put on a good face, but hate you just the same."

"True," he said. "You should get back to your work. But not yet." He lay a sheet of paper in front of her, and a pen. "Before that, you need to satisfy our condition. You need a short letter to your husband. There are four things it must have. The first you must tell him is that you and the children are alive and well. Remember, your daughter is alive."

She stared at him, full of uncertainty. "I will say they are alive. Nothing more."

"All right. Second, that you are safe, and I would not argue with me about that. Because you are. You are to tell him you expect that you will be united with him."

"Will I?" she asked.

"Yes, one morning he'll find you standing there on his own ground with the sun rising behind you. And children, at least as many as we can."

She ignored the comment about the children. Unfortunately, it was true. "Most poetic. He may even think it romantic. I actually do look forward to that moment," she said grimly, "seeing his joy so maybe when I tell him how much I despise him it hurts more. But you'll still get to give him his reward that way." Then she turned to him. "But if this camp is purged with your guns, you'll have to purge me with it."

He looked at her, smiling now. "I believe when you arrive at your new home they may find they have gained a great asset once you get used to living like a human being again."

"And my daughter?"

"She and the boy may prove a problem. You take all of them, if they haven't disappeared before. I'm being honest. She isn't a child anymore. She must improve or she would not be tolerated in either your temporary stop, and certainly not your new home. She'll live, though." He studied her and some of her mask slipped a little. "You haven't really looked at her, what she became, haven't you? No telling what else she did to earn her rations in that camp."

She stared at him. She'd heard stories, but didn't believe them. But now she'd never really know. And Molly always had rations.

Picking up the pen, she looked at him. "I have tried to protect them. The world you have made is cruel and destroys children. But I will write the letter if you will promise that they will live, and not as animals."

"I will. And there is one more thing. You need something personal, something which will convince your husband that it is from you. I will go to him, but scanned so it doesn't have to be words."

But she was remembering. When they'd been sent to Bajor, he'd put the red dress in the bag he was packing incase they had to evacuate later.

She made it simple. She told him she looked forward to seeing if she still fit in the dress he'd snuck away. Signing it, she handed it to him.

She said nothing, but given the places she'd been, this place Miles had been trapped could not be worse. She didn't expect it to be much better, but thought to herself that the only tradition of the world they'd wiped away that survived now was its ancient tradition of slavery and control and manipulation seemed to be all that still survived of her species.

But then, if it was there was no reason for her not to take advantage.

o0o

Unsettled by the day, Rom had gone home to take his wife to dinner, knowing Nog was gone. But she had not been alone. The baby was asleep, and the older child stared at him. The younger was playing. A box with everything they owned sat in the corner.

They'd taken the children to dinner, Rom feeling odd, and settled them in bed before he asked.

"How bad?" he asked.

"She collapsed. She was running a high fever and they said it might be an infection. But I just have this feeling," she said. She was already mourning. "She told me to love them. She knows. I think she just finally gave up."

The baby was sleeping but Leeta kept looking her way, as if she should check.

"My position is very important," he said. "But it will cost us. And now, it will cost them."

"Nog explained. If she lives, but she won't. I just know. But we will be here for these children."

The baby woke. Leeta looked at him, picking her up. "Neres doesn't much care what you do so long as you care," she said softly, settling in the chair and playing with the baby.

Her nine year old brother came out, looking at them. "Mama's going to die."

Rom looked at the boy. "She might. If she does, you have a home," he said.

The boy watched as his little sister followed him out, and feeling odd, remembering when Nog's mother had left him with his son before her departure, and Nog had come to him, he held the child and realized that his world had already changed and nothing would ever be simple again.

End, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 12


	14. Part 1 Occupation Chapter 13

LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year Two - Metamorphosis

Part 1 - Occupation

Chapter 13

Lonnie would never forget the day Willy had been shot. She kept his urn on a shelf above his desk. The terrible day repeated itself over and over in her nightmares. She could remember the fascination of the far off figures, the horror of the moment she knew what they had done, and the coldness that came after as if it was yesterday.

Every time she was awakened too early to go "out" she feared it was someone else's turn.

Larson had died a few days before. She had already tried a little of the grass that now bore his name and it worked. She was planning to grind some it in dried form for a tea to see if it worked in even smaller doses that way.

But Jabara woke her early. She and her head nurse passed out the door to the freshness and death of outside once again.

They walked as far as the gate and were ordered to stop. Ahead of them, six figures materialized in the square next to the gate. Four were Jem'Hadar. The other two were prisoners, dressed in nondescript dark coveralls and held up by a Jem'Hadar.

She wondered if they were from her staff and they were to be allowed to witness an execution from very close. She hoped they kept the prisoners faces covered so she wouldn't see their eyes.

But instead, the guards let go of their prisoners and before the two had fully collapsed to the ground the Jem'Hadar were gone.

Lonnie inched ahead, uncertain about permission to move past the gate but the guard motioned them forward.

The two prisoners had their hands tied behind them. They were filthy and their eyes were covered by a blindfold. One was a woman, conscience but too weak to stand. Her hair was filthy and tangled. Lonnie knelt to take her arm, and she weakly tried to pull away. But Lonnie was stronger and the woman only whimpered as Lonnie half-dragged her towards the hospital. A little of the terror that filled her new patient reached past the ice which had become Lonnie's defense against reality.

Jabara took the man, who made no effort to resist at all. But he had to be nearly carried. He was as thin and dirty as the woman.

She didn't try to identify them yet. She probably had Kay, but couldn't think too closely about it. If she did she would be disappointed if the man wasn't Julian.

When they reached the gate it was closed behind them and they finished the short journey to the door inside. Lonnie let Jabara and her limp charge go first. It was a relief when the door shut and their charges were allowed to sit by the wall.

The two slipped to the ground, huddling on the floor. Jabara untied their hands, both freezing in place while touched, and cuddling into balls afterwards.

But then, for once, Lonnie had no idea of what to do. Those they shot would die. That was easy. Those with visible wounds or fevers would go with the others. But these patients bore wounds she knew would last far longer than any physical ones they brought back.

Julian had still lived in fear of the internment camp and whatever had happened there. She knew he had left out things he couldn't deal with or put into words. A year ago she didn't understand why but now she did.

How would Kay and the man across on the floor from her manage to crawl out of their terror enough to survive? There were no counselors here. There was just work and hunger and an unending supply of patients.

If it was Julian, would he be able to ever *be* a doctor again?

But Jabara saved her. Almost immediately, without having to be asked, she stood and gave the first orders to the waiting staff.

"We need a couple of stretchers, and two empty dark rooms," she said. "And set up a bath in each one. And get everyone away from here until that's done."

People scurried off to get the rooms ready. Someone had brought blankets and the victims took refuge under them, although it was not cold.

When the others had left Jabara looked at Lonnie. "I apologize if I've' . . . . "

Lonnie was still very shaken, and she shook her head. " No need. At least one of us had some ideas." She took several deep breaths, relieved they had privacy. The two on the floor were completely covered by the blankets now and huddled into small balls. "I think she's Kay," she said. "What now?"

Jabara looked uneasy but sounded confident. "Bathe them, examine them and then start feeding them. Then you see how it goes from there."

Lonnie still was in shock, wishing she hadn't guessed about the woman. It had let in too many other thoughts she couldn't allow right now. Looking at Kay she said quietly, "I wasn't trying to hurt her, but we had to get inside fast. She pulled away when I touched her."

Jabara seemed very calm, but Lonnie wondered how much was an act. "She didn't know who you were, or what you were going to do with her. It may take awhile before she does." Then her nurse turned to her. "Right now, *you* have to get yourself under control. For her. For both of them."

Lonnie understood. She hadn't expected this reminder of hope. But she forced herself to think and move. "I'm going to get the tricorder. We can at least see what is wrong."

She forced herself to walk normally to her office, wanting nothing but to escape inside. Jabara stayed with the others. There could be hidden injuries that they should take care about, but most of all she had to get away.

But the office was no sanctuary. The tricorder bore a small seal on its face. Everything it read went to Them. All the injuries and sickness and death was being cataloged. But it helped. Those destined to die slept in as much peace as they could afford until they went but didn't waste anything else.

Her heart was racing. It might tell them who the new patients were. But the walk back would have to be enough of a rest. The stretchers would be there along with those who must see someone firm and in control.

She had put a space between the fears and the image by the time she arrived. The stretchers sat ready for their patients, and only a few staff were left to give them more privacy.

She scanned the woman first. She'd been badly abused but there were no injuries needing immediate treatment. Nor did the man, though he had several that were half healed, and thus got priority.

Jabara requested specific people, all from Bashir's staff, to stay with the woman, and they began lifting them on the stretchers.

The man didn't resist. But he did curl as far as possible from them. The woman tried to shrink away again, but with several pairs of hands on her she stopped resisting and just whimpered. She was carried into one room, and her watchers entered. The man went to the other room, and Lonnie, her head nurse and two specially selected orderlies followed.

o0o

He lay curled into a ball, hunched against the wall. Lonnie took a deep breath and banished everything but responsibility.

She didn't even consider his name. Whoever he was, he needed to be washed and fed and kept safe so he could try to heal.

The first task was getting off the filthy clothes, but he had to be unfurled first.

Jabara gave the orders. One of the orderlies looked curiously at her for a moment, but they obeyed. Lonnie wondered if he had guessed she didn't know what to do.

He was forcible straightened. He fought at first, but didn't have enough strength for much. With someone holding both arms and legs he gave up and went limp instead.

Jabara cut the clothes. He'd been in them sitting in filth for several months, but he was lucky to have them. The thin cloth protected his skin a little from sores and scrapes.

But not all. On his sides the skin was rough and scratched. Here and there were sores that might have killed him if they'd left him long enough.

Each time the scissors touched him Lonnie could feel the shudder that passed through him. Looking at the thin, wasted body she knew she would never think of their ordeal as quite so terrible.

Once his clothes were cut and bagged, she understood the shutters. There were visible scars from more than one beating. Cuts that looked like lash marks, only partially healed, covered his back. Even the lightest touch there made him freeze.

Despite her best intentions, Lonnie couldn't push the image away. The ones they'd killed hadn't been abused so badly. In exchange for life this man had had to endure starvation, beatings and torture. She did not want to think of the others that were missing and what might have been done to them.

The bed was on wheels, and they slid it to the tub. Between them they lifted him as gently as they could. She could feel the fear as he was moved. But as they slid him into the warm water, his body relaxed. His eyes still covered by the blindfold, they held his head up out of the water. But the tight grimace around his cheeks and mouth disappeared and his breathing slowed.

Assurances that he was home and safe hadn't brought even a sign of being heard before. But now he tilted his head back. One hand tentatively drifted towards Lonnie's arm, splashing water on the mangled hair.

She took his hand. She could hear a faint sigh. He no longer tried to curl inward. He was very thin and his skin in delicate condition. He was left to soak in his bath for a little while to clean off the skin.

Jabara pulled her aside. "Let us check on Kay."

They left the three others to care for him. He could not be washed, but the built up grime and filth would make infection more likely if he wasn't cleaned up. He was thin and starved, but not so far gone that food and rest wouldn't suffice.

And she thought he was peaceful, after such a long time of terror. But she still wasn't sure who he was. She hadn't thought that was possible before this terrible spring.

He'd be examined before they put him in a special ward to make sure the injuries were no worse than they appeared. But for now she would see to Kay.

He hadn't a name, and it was easier to look at his wasted body that way. Kay was different. She hadn't known her well, but it was more personal.

She knew from the scan what had been done to her.

Jabara went ahead, and Lonnie took the time to get a quick bowl of weak soup. It was early and it hadn't cooked long, but she was so tired she needed something. The broth wouldn't overcome the emotional exhaustion, but she was ready to work again after she inhaled it.

When she arrived back, Jabara was testing Kay's bath. There was only so much warm water, and they could only fill one tub at a time. So while Kay cowered under her blanket, the water for her bath had been warmed.

Kay was huddled in a corner, the blanket pulled around her. When Jabara touched her she almost violently pulled away. Lonnie backed off, waiting for Jabara. When her nurse walked away she showed her the tricorder reading she'd taken before.

Jabara said nothing about the reading, but spoke to her watchers. "Go help with the other one. We should be able to take care of her."

When they'd gone, she stared at the wall above Kay.

Lonnie whispered to the Bajoran nurse, "I didn't think they went in for rape."

Jabara stared at the tricorder. "The Cardassian's are their allies. They do."

Lonnie noted the bitterness but didn't ask.

Kay had to be cleaned up no matter how scared she was. "Who ever it was, she was raped repeatedly. Should we sedate her?"

Jabara had a faraway look in her eyes for a moment. "No. She has to learn. It won't be easy but she must get used to it."

Lonnie didn't want to know why she was so cold about it. But when she approached Kay, it was with great care.

She didn't touch her, just talked through the blanket. Lonnie didn't even know that Kay understood Bajoran until then, but Jabara spoke softly in its lyrical sounds. Lonnie knew a few words Julian had taught her, but Willy had generally forbidden its use unless necessary and she didn't remember much of it.

But she watched with fascination as the blanket parted and the blindfold covered head emerged from cover. Kay stopped pulling back and instead attacked the blindfold with her hands.

The man's blindfold had been crusty and stiff, stuck to his skin by something and was being softened with diluted casaba gel to remove it safely. Lonnie was afraid she'd rip off skin too.

"Not yet, Kay. It's still stuck. We'll get you cleaned up and take it off."

She pulled her hands down, pushing the blanket aside. Jabara had switched to standard. "Don't fight us, Kay. You're safe now. They won't touch you."

Lonnie remembered her better now, one of Bashir's nurses that had ended up in the very junior end of the hierarchy. Slowly Kay allowed herself to be pulled from the corner, but needed help getting undressed.

Jabara handed her a pair of scissors. "We're going to get these clothes off and it's easier to just cut them. Now, I'll be holding your hand. Just relax. It may feel cold but it won't hurt you."

Kay nodded, fiercely gripping Jabara's hand. Lonnie cut up the side of the jumpsuit, disturbed by the whimpers the young woman could not suppress. Underneath, she was just as dirty as her clothes were, and Jabara began whispering again, softly. "Now we have a bath ready, and we're going to take you to it. Can you walk?"

Tentatively, Kay nodded again, and they got her, trembling, to her feet. Lonnie supported one side and Jabara the other, and they helped her into the bath.

Kay pulled back at the first touch of the water, but as the warmth surrounded her she relaxed a little. She was so dirty Lonnie wondered how long she'd had the coverall. It hadn't seemed to fit all that well and was far cleaner than Kay herself. She would need to be bathed again to finish the job, but they allowed her the luxury of the warm water until she was ready to fall asleep.

Jabara stayed with her, talking softly and helping her wash. Her skin was rough, but not damaged. She wasn't as thin as the man, either. "Let's try to wash this dirt off a little better," Jabara said as Lonnie returned to her other patient.

o0o

The man was out of his bath. He was back in the bed, now covered in a clean sheet and blanket, apparently sleeping.

She looked at the chief nurse in the room. "Did you need to sedate him?"

"No, he let us carry him out and put him to bed. Then he went to sleep."

He wasn't curled in his tight ball anymore. Instead, he lay on his side, facing the wall. He was shivering under the covers as she checked, careful not to touch him.

"Did you check his temp?" she asked, afraid he was sick.

"It's normal. He was worse before, but I think he's finally relaxing."

She handed Lonnie the chart. They'd done a quick exam. The cuts would have to be treated. And the blindfold was wet and loose.

She needed to hurry. Kay would have to be examined as well, and she wanted them safely in a room as soon as possible.

"I think we should sedate him. Even if its near dark, it might still hurt his eyes."

The nurse left to get the sedative. She touched him and he jumped. But the tea had to be swallowed.

"We have some medicine for you to drink," she said quietly. "It will make you sleepy so we can take off your blindfold."

She waited until he was listening, still not trusting anything around him but not retreating either.

"Stuck," he mumbled.

"It's loose now. We get this done and you'll get some food and lots of rest."

He must have suddenly recognized her voice. "Lonnie?"

"Yes. You're home. You're safe."

Suddenly his whole body convulsed, and he started to sob. He pushed against her and she held him.

When the nurse returned he was cuddled in her arms. "Sir," she said.

He moved a little, pulling closer. "We need you to drink this now. You'll sleep."

He allowed her to slide him over, and sipped the drink, not even reacting to the bitter taste.

He was arraigned on his side and she reviewed the notes she'd looked over before while she waited for him to be out.

"Nurse Jabara said she can't leave Kay alone."

Lonnie nodded at her nurse. Just as this one knew her enough to trust it was real, Kay needed someone she believed wouldn't hurt. Lonnie and Kay had never really been friends. Willy's policies didn't really encourage friendship, anyway.

"We'll be fine here," she said. "Let's get started."

Now that he was still and asleep, and she'd gotten used to his condition, it was easier. He was just a patient. The burns would be treated with gel. If there were facial abrasions, they'd be smothered in it as well. She reviewed her tricorder scan. Something had been implanted in his neck, but it was long before healed. But there were no internal injuries.

The room was darkened. There was just enough light to see what they were doing. Sedated, he had relaxed, and they could move him into a better position to be examined.

The burns were almost healed. That was simple. Lonnie knew the hard part would be living with the memory of how they came to be. But he was very weak from malnutrition, and for now, that was his greatest danger.

All that remained was the blindfold. In the darkened room, she cut it open behind his ears. His hair was tangled and dirty, but aside from a rash from the friction, there were no open sores. Then, moving carefully, they lifted it off his face.

She knew his name but could not think it yet. His eyes were the same, but too old. His skin was covered with a rash like that on his scalp, but it wasn't serious. But he looked too aged to be the same man she'd known.

The nurse said nothing. She helped wash his face and trimmed the tangled hair. His eyes were covered, and the skin smothered in jell, then wrapped in gauze. The burns were treated and covered and he was dressed in a gown.

It was all they could do. Food, rest and isolation would have to do the rest. But she'd spent too much time there, and now she had to see to Kay.

o0o

Jabara had Kay sitting up in bed, holding her. Kay had already removed the blindfold, and stared at Lonnie with terrified, untrusting eyes.

"Doctor needs to make sure we don't need to treat you," said Jabara softly.

Kay stared at her, uncomprehending. "She's not a doctor," she whispered.

"Not usually. But right now she's it."

Kay backed away further, trying to hide behind Jabara.

Lonnie didn't come any closer. She remembered the tale the scan had told of repeated abuse. She could deal with starvation and torture easier than what she would have to with Kay.

She didn't need to examine her right now. She spoke slowly and as calmly as she could. "We can do that later when you're more rested. Let's get you to bed."

But it wasn't going to be that simple. Kay clutched Jabara's arm and slunk behind her.

Jabara didn't have the time to sit with her all night. She was going to have to sleep.

Then Lonnie had an inspiration. "I have something which might help," she said.

She went to her office. It was in a closed bag. Kay might feel a little less used in something pretty. And she took a tiny pinch of the spice to add to the bitter sedative.

Hot water was added to a covered cup, with the drug and spice.

She returned with Kay laying on her side behind Jabara.

"I found something special for you, Kay. But you need to drink this first."

Jabara took the nightgown. Kay reached out her hand with a tentative caress. She peered at Lonnie with suspicion, as if she was a scared, abused child.

Jabara took the tea and offered it. "I promise you'll wake up in this, in a nice bed all to yourself."

Kay never stopped staring at Lonnie. But she drank the tea.

Jabara stayed until she fell asleep. Then Kay was rolled on her back for a brief exam.

She had bite marks, some healed, all over her shoulders and breasts. There were bruises as well, and signs of at least some beatings. But that wasn't hard to see. Lonnie moved her legs apart, staring at the torn and battered skin between them.

"Not now." Jabara looked away. "Let her rest."

"I've got to see if there's any infection."

"Not according to the tricorder."

"I have to."

She took a slender swab and pushed it inside. Kay squirmed and froze, even in her sleep. Slowly pulling it out, Lonnie bagged her sample.

"We have to do a lab test. You know that."

She was Sir for the moment. Kay had started to relax again, and curled onto her side. Lonnie was disturbed by the reaction, but it had to be done. The report must be complete.

Jabara looked preoccupied, but gave in. "I know. For your report."

But she stroked Kay's tangled hair, and spoke soft words into her ear until her breathing slowed again.

Jabara didn't approve, but wouldn't argue either.

Her hair was a tangled mat. Jabara already had cut past the worst of it, but shortened it more. "Maybe we can brush out the rest," she said.

She picked up the gown, letting its soft folds open and drape over her arm. "This looks new."

"Never worn. My father gave it to me. I always slept in his big loose shirts. He thought I should have something proper for cold nights."

Jabara was lifting Kay and Lonnie helped. Her back was rough and scarred with abrasions, but no healed wounds. "It will help her."

Lonnie made an innocent observation, or at least it sounded like one at first. "She's not as thin as the other one."

Jabara closed her eyes. "She cooperated."

Lonnie considered the implications. She had endured more than the usual range of rape. In her mind, Lonnie was a little disappointed in Kay.

But they had to get moving. Kay and the orderly weren't the only patients in the hospital.

She forced herself to be practical. "We've got to get them to their rooms."

"True. I think Carlson could use an IV too. For just today."

"I'll check," said Lonnie, relieved to escape.

She picked two small rooms for them, making sure the beds were clean. They were part of the small isolation area they'd made with the moveable walls the hospital had been designed with, used before for those potentially contagious. It was room for a bed and small table, but it the whole area was separated from the rest. And she was relieved that there was enough sugar IV for Carlson.

It occurred to her that the young orderly had told good jokes. Somehow she doubted he'd do that anymore.

He and Kay would need time. They'd be in isolation, with the virus still not done. He was weaker than Kay, but somehow Lonnie thought he'd be able to heal inside long before she did.

Lonnie allowed herself to be frustrated. The broth would help but not as much as sufficient IV medicine.

Returning, Kay was dressed in her new gown. Lonnie still wore the old shirts her father had discarded. She'd only brought the nightgown because it was the last touch of home. Hidden in her office, it reminded her to not give up. But somehow, the old shirt had brought her closer to him than even his last gift could do.

Waking from the sedative, Kay was absent mindedly petting it. Lonnie was sure her father would have been honored to help.

She checked the charts, adding their room numbers. "Let's get them out of here and the IV needs to be started for Carlson."

Jabara nodded. "I've already posted them as isolation rooms."

"Good," said Lonnie. After what they'd survived, she didn't want to see them go from the virus.

Lonnie pushed Carlson's stretcher. The corridor had been as cleared as was possible, and Kay stared at it as they passed the supplies and other things which now lined the walls. But mostly she watched Jabara.

Carlson was put in his room and his IV started. He was still sleeping. Jabara sat next to Kay and held her hand while Kay was falling back asleep.

"I'll stay with her for a little while," said Jabara.

Lonnie hurried back to her office. The tricorder was replaced in its locked hiding place. She sat at her desk and checked the time.

It was nearly time for dinner. The day had started so early, and she was exhausted. But the daily forms and reports had to be done. She picked up the forms for the two new patients, but without the gloom that morning visits outside usually left behind.

Kay would live with years of nightmares, and Carlson would have to as well. She was angry for the things that had been done to them and probably the others. But tonight while she made up the time sitting in her office, two living, recovering patients had come home.

Willy had died, but maybe some of them would live. The next time she was called for an early morning walk outside there would be hope of life instead of death.

Once Julian had said that as long as Tain was building the transmitter he could hold onto a little hope. If it had failed he might not have cared if rations rose or fell, or the guards were in a bad mood. Then there would have been no tomorrow.

The day before her life had been dominated by death. Today, she would remember the way Kay petted the soft fabric of the nightgown like a little girl with a puppy. And she would never forget the moment Carlson had remembered her name. Tomorrow, she'd wake with the hope they'd call her again and life would prove stronger than dying. And tonight, she would sleep in more peace than in a long time because she knew there would be a tomorrow.

o0o

Little Jules lay in frozen panic, not knowing how, but that monsters had come again. Now, he was in a box. He couldn't move and he couldn't feel and the silent panic was building again. They had hurt him, he knew, but did not know when or how. Their shadows rose above him, around his prison, moving with some purpose. He needed to pull far away from them, hide in the only safety he understood, but they'd boxed him too tightly. He lay, not moving, even if he could, trying to close his eyes, but in the dark there were memories. A very old memory of his grandmother, lying still and pale, as if she were a doll, as if the monsters had taken her from the arms who held him and the lips that kissed him. Mummy had said she had gone, but he didn't understand. Had they come for him, now? Had they made him so still and frozen, trapped inside? Mummy had said to say good bye. Had she known? Was she still inside, disconnected, between two places.

There was the box, the shadow monsters and the pain he did not remember now, and another. It called to him. Maybe grandmum was waiting to hold him. So tired, so lost. He wanted her arms around him. When Father shouted, and Mummy screamed she'd hold him safe. When the din quieted and Mummy was crying and Father was gone, he'd still hold her. When the monsters had taken her and put her in their box, he'd been alone.

But the pain was done, and he had not let them win. He didn't know how or why, but perhaps Grandmum had been there too. Closing his eyes, just darkness now, no shadows, he could feel her. He was not afraid anymore. She was so close, so strong. He could feel her arms around him and the soft touch of her hand soothing his fear.

The monsters were talking now, time gone by he thought or in a place where there was no time. He'd never heard them speak before, just echo's of sound, but they were musical, like bird song. She liked the sound. She would take him away from this place of hurt and pain and fear. She had known peace. But he was growing sleepy now, their voices distant, Grandmum drawing away. He begged her to stay, but she only held back, enough to be felt, but she would leave him.

He could make her. He could will the body to die. Remembering the oblivion which followed the pain, the panic and then peace as he ceased to breath, holding on to it, the bird sounds became faster and sharper and louder, as if he was succeeding. He yearned for nothing but peace, and for a fleeting moment, he was with her, and knew her peace and tried to stay. There was no box, no sound, no pain or fear or loss or panic. But there was knowledge. He did not know how but it was a victory too.

Flooded with an immense satisfaction, he was distracted. He could not hold on, and the chittering was louder, but slowed, and the box drew him in and he knew he was not to die. Not yet. But they could not watch forever.

A heaviness overcame him as the shadows and the box and the sounds and everything faded to a place more distant than death.

o0o

Life had sunk into a monotony since he'd let Jeffy back into his life. Andy stood with the rest, walked outside at twilight, and took his food. He was still hungry, but he'd been hungry so long he didn't really feel it anymore. The room had gotten quiet most of the time, and sometimes he wondered if the others had perhaps known, but kept it quiet, and were asking themselves the unknowable questions, like what if they had told?

Nobody really knew. Nobody could even guess. Andy didn't do that. He'd let the cart stay broken and by the walkway. Maybe if he hadn't, Jeffy would have grown up. Or maybe he'd have found it anyway. Past was past, and gone. But Jeffy wasn't. They all rolled themselves into the blankets and went to their own personal places. But his was good. Weather it was a spirit or a memory or someone he'd just imagined to fill the empty space, Jeffy was with him. They didn't live in the past, but now. Jeffy told stories. They remembered the time they had had together. He and Jeffy watched the others, debating which had guilt eating them from inside.

There were several candidates. He stood close to them when they went out for their meal, just in case they took off like one of Sisko's staff had, before they'd come. He'd heard while they assembled for the execution. He didn't want any more blood in his dreams.

And he'd found a small piece of something soft enough to mark. So he knew the date now. It was April 6th. He liked having a month with a name. The season even matched. He and Jeffy wondered together why the gloved and coated men had used them when nobody else had. It might have been talked about with the others, but then he'd have to let in their worlds, and he was sure his was better.

That day, though, one had awakened, sometime before food, sobbing quietly. The others didn't pay much attention, but Andy had stayed very close and pushed him back towards the door. He'd been good friends with one of the three they'd shot. They'd worked directly together. Inside, Andy had made sure he made it to his bed, and cornered him.

"Why"" he'd asked.

"It's his birthday. My friend. He'd told me about the plans and I didn't want anything to do with it. Should have stopped him. Maybe we wouldn't be here."

"Too late for that. You'd still be here, maybe with him, but maybe not. You saw the date too, didn't you?"

"Yeah. It was better before. Like it started over each day." He had stopped crying, just staring now. "Like I'd wake up one day and it was just a dream. Now its, its all the things we don't know. Maybe don't want to."

Andy was getting looks from the others, even if they were whispering. "We'll find out when they decide its enough. Then we'll deal. But we're alive. More than your friend got."

"If that matters," the man had mumbled, disappearing into the blanket. Andy retreated, but watched. After they were all asleep, all but Andy, he'd gotten up, looking around the room. Then he'd found a small piece off of something broken, much like Andy's calender. Except it was smaller and if it broke again, might have an edge.

'No,' said Jeffy, 'It's his choice.' as he almost took it away.

Maybe Jeffy wouldn't let him or maybe he understood, but the crying started, then it stopped. The others had stirred and someone noticed blood.

It was hours before they would knock. Torn fabric bound the wound, a cut hacked into his leg, tearing skin, but not enough he'd bleed to death. They cleaned it the best they could, but all they could do was bind it and hope it didn't kill him.

He'd limped out for dinner, and the Jem'Hadar didn't even notice. Andy didn't know why nobody told them, but maybe they'd just take him away, or think they were fighting or had smuggled in something. Maybe nobody wanted to take that chance.

'He couldn't,' said Jeffy. 'Wanted to but couldn't. But now he's got something real that hurts.'

Someone got up and checked the wound, re-wrapping it with a clean pad, or at least as clean as they could manage. An unspoken agreement floated around them that they'd try, all of them. He knew the situation with infections there, and thought perhaps their captors did too. Maybe if they cared they'd at least end it quicker, if they noticed at all.

'I'm glad I went fast,' said Jeffy.

They'd keep watch. He was sleeping and the rest did too. But just the same, it was different. They were still like stored supplies, destined for some purpose, and inventoried to be sure they hadn't been consumed. But the man cried and everyone looked, the next in line padding out to check. To their captors they were just things, and they had been to themselves, but now that was changed and they belonged to each other and the one who needed them more.

o0o

Grateful the others had gone, especially Catherine who had made her go to bed, Dorothy lovingly ran her hand down the line of books. She was tired and would have to give into it, but coming home, escaping the nightmare the hospital had become, was like reentering the room filled with old friends. She had to sit in her chair, and just take in the walls, the small display of mementos she'd brought with her when they ran, the special things dear Arvel had left her.

She had been so afraid of dying. But the two weeks confined in hell had changed that. She couldn't explain. But she understood his world now, or enough of it she had a connection there had never really been.

He had lived with death from the time he was born. It was a part of life, and he countered its power by giving greater value to living. While she was trapped in the full misery of his world those two weeks, seven in her or an adjoining room had passed on. One was a girl barely past two. She had lay for some time wondering why, her own fever making her light headed. He had come to her in a dream. The child, he said, had known hunger and fear, but there were joys. She'd splashed and played in her bath. She'd loved her mother. She'd even loved her world in a way only children could explain. She might have had more, but each moment was one to cherish.

When her own fever had spiked, and Dorothy knew the danger, she'd remembered all the wonder in her life and knew she'd let go, if it was to be, in peace.

Feeling exhausted after just a short walk, she took several books. One was poetry, the other a autobiography. The author was human and it was old, the remembrances of a woman whose life had spanned the end of the society, her family interned in a Sanctuary district, to the early recovery of the Third World War. Born into comfort, her life had been anything but. But she had survived, and it was the book Dorothy had most valued after Arvil's passing.

A little of her was Dorothy. They'd finally begun to return the captives. She'd heard about their condition, and felt guilty for feeling sorry for herself and the rest not interned in storage. She'd heard rumors of soldiers which weren't Jem'Hadar, and hadn't seen them but knew they were waiting just beyond the end of the larger deck.

But most of all the reality had become hers. Others less sick than her had died. Others more sick had recovered. It was a game. You twirled the wheel and took your chances. Win or lose. Live or die.

The ribbon marking her favorite part had almost left a mark on the book. But she started to read and suddenly closed her eyes. The images were too precise. She could smell the reeking smells of the street. She could hear the loud play of the children who were trapped in this world, the one the desperate had made to shut out the reality that their society was broken, that their people were broken too.

It drew her in. Some of the children sounded like those she knew. Some of the voices calling to them as the game ended, as the end of the Sanctuary district was just beginning with the riot, were voices she'd heard. The book had been about someone else's time, long before. Now, it was her own.

She could still hear the distant sounds of the riot, the barely hidden panic in the parents voices, and she almost moved the mark. Their trial was underway, but still just beginning. She did not want to know what came next. She closed the book, looking at the title, No Surrender. Instead of putting it in its shelf, she laid it back on the chair. The poetry was Arvil's, and she let it calm her, but it flowed above a sea of fears and the unknown places their fate would take them.

She couldn't read it, but she would keep it close. Arvil had survived on hope and a belief there would be a reason for it. She didn't know how anymore.. The little girl who saw her world shatter had survived on some inner strength, and never surrendering to defeat. They were both lessons Dorothy had to learn.

But she was tired and the quiet, after the unending din of the hospital was so calming that she picked up her books and laid then next to her in bed. Giving into the exhaustion, she slept, but dreamed of a place they didn't know yet and the ones who were stubborn enough to push back fear and hold on who made it.

There was a sound somewhere, and she woke, but understood that from that moment forth, she would find a way to make that world better.

o0o

Mac watched as the Jem'Hadar moved about in the distance, carefully staying behind their line. Across the blue line, O'Brien's people sat arraigned in an uneven line, arraigned so as to divert anyone from crossing their inner defenses.

Nobody wanted to come to close to them. Some of Mac's friends were sitting the line, but he would have refused. He couldn't stand the thought of being isolated from everyone, not that Michael would do that. But he understood why they were there.

A week before, he'd been there, next to his friend as he had quietly, peacefully stopped breathing. The moment still filled his dreams when he could sleep.

But he had other dreams. The nightmares came now and then, but mostly he went home. His mother would be waiting for him. His sister would ask a flood of questions he couldn't answer. Every time he woke when she asked if he was coming home some day.

Before, the dreams had brought peace. It had been a few moments of escape from the hard reality of the day. But since Cary had died, and the watchers had come to remind them at every glance, it was an empty peace.

He knew he'd never go home. None of them ever would.

That morning, he had awakened with his mother's face and voice and touch in his head. She was dead, but that only made the images more cherished. But sitting in the doorway of his warm little room, dwelling on life and death, he knew they were more than separated from him by politics and war and distance. He knew they could never understand.

He had not seen Cary running, or the first shot that hit him, but had seen him rise slowly and run toward the water pump. He remembered being frozen in place, horrified and fascinated at the same time. He had seen him shot the second time, though, and the casual disregard with which he had been tossed back over the line.

That wasn't part of the nightmare. This was the Jem'Hadar. It was expected of them. But sitting there, missing his friend, he imagined trying to tell his mother about it.

She would look at him, curious and trying to understand. She would give him all her attention, and yet for her it would never be real. He could describe in the smallest details how casual the Jem'Hadar had been, how the numbness was quickly giving way to acceptance, and how he missed his friend, but could not really grieve. She would look at him, wondering who the stranger that stood before her was, and what had become of her son.

He realized that even should rescue come tomorrow, nobody would recognize them were they to go back across the line, for they were already home.

o0o

The second time he woke, Julian knew he was still alive. He could remember the look in the slave's eyes, and the victory, and the intensity of the pain that had driven away awareness. It seemed distant now, as if he'd just dreamed it. His vision was fuzzy but he could tell he lay in a biobed, though not one of Federation design. A mask fit over his nose and mouth, and it was hard to swallow. He could hear the sound of a quiet pump, and the telltale sounds of monitors.

The Vorta was trying to save his life. This wasn't some special privilege afforded the chosen of the slaves, but high level life support. He tried to take a breath but could feel nothing. His body appeared to be covered by a dome shaped shield and he assumed he could no longer breath on his own. So the slave had succeeded, but not enough.

There was nothing, no pain or cold or feeling at all. It was as if the body had become disconnected from him. One hand lay outside the dome, some sort of connection tube extending from his hand, but the hand was pale and limp and did not seem to be connected to him. He was tired, a profound weariness that simply surrounded him. And emptiness filled his mind, and the memory played in his head of the charge that had surged through him, and the immense spike of pain, and then . . . nothing.

Was this life? Had they tried to save him and this was all they could do? Would the Vorta insist on keeping him in this half-life as punishment until it, too, failed?

The female Vorta would not try to keep him alive. She would have failed, but he would have suffocated on her torture rack when his lungs stopped functioning. Deyos would have no use for him, not now. Only Glebaroun would go to this sort of effort.

He closed his eyes, but the emptiness was too lonely. Now, the Vorta owned everything. He could keep him here, machines feigning life, for some time, he suspected. Was he holding back treatment in exchange for a confession? Whatever he wanted from him he could not do it hooked into life support. How long before this empty place was so intolerable he would give the Vorta the words he needed? What if the damage was so great that in the end this was all that could be done? Would the Vorta let him die?

He didn't want to open his eyes, didn't want to see, but could not stand the unknown. He listened, waiting for feet, or voices or sounds but aside from machines he could hear nothing. Slowly, warily, he opened his eyes.

The shapes were more defined now. There was a barrier around him. Perhaps there was a sterile field, or some sort of medication infused within, or a higher than normal percentage of oxygen. The doctor in him was fascinated by the machines. So little had been known of Dominion medical knowledge. He listened to the hiss of the pump as his lungs were forced to function and wished he could see what had to be a complex technology concealed under the dome. He did not want to think of the half-life he was suspended in now so he let his mind observe the details he could see and guess about those he couldn't. It was calm there. It was as if he was looking at someone else. He did not want to know that he no longer even had the choice to die.

But there were sounds. He could hear a door open, just a slight sound but his superior hearing still worked. He closed his eyes, unable to calm himself if he could not slow his breathing. Lying still, he heard the footfalls of something small and a chittering that sounded like birds. It must have been some kind of aliens because the pattern sounded like conversation.

He listened as the aliens chattered, thinking of a sunny day with a flock of birds gathered in a tree. It was a pleasant sound. But they were not quite bird-like sounds entirely. He just listened. Glebaroun had brought him here quickly, for he would not have lived long. The Vorta, if these odd sounding creatures had one, would find a way to save his life. She still owned a part of him, but the Vorta who owned everyone under his thumb at home owned him more. If he was asked to confess something and refused would he have life support turned off and let him die? Or would he still restore his health and send him back to Deyos because that was the only option left?

The sounds were closer. Now it sounded less like birds and more like some primitive language. But they were not primitives or the Vorta would not have them here.

If the Vorta told him he could confess and save himself, would he be able to speak? Thinking of it swept him with cold fear. He hated the woman more than he had ever hated but knew he had allowed her to win. If he went home, how could he ever explain? Lonnie would understand most of it but he doubted she could phantom that.

One of the aliens was close. He could hear the hum of some sort of scanner near him. Perhaps they knew he was awake.

Then there was a voice, mechanical but sing-song like. He opened his eyes to see the creature looking at him. It didn't look like a bird, not quite, but it was largely just a blur anyway.

"Do you feel pain?" asked the voice.

He couldn't speak even if he could get past the fear with the breathing device in his mouth. He just shook his head no. He guessed they understood since somehow it looked disappointed. They asked him more questions, but all the answers were no.

"You must sleep," he was told. He was sure of the disappointment. Maybe they wouldn't be able to do more than keep him alive, if this qualified. Maybe he hadn't entirely been cheated.

Something was emptied into the device on his hand, and everything became vague. He drifted for a time, the clicks sounding loud but distant, and finally heard nothing. But in the last fleeting moments of consciousness, he thought of Lonnie and how much she needed him and how much he owed all of them that had suffered because he had been so weak.

He didn't finish the thought. But someday he knew he would. Where it would lead him didn't much matter now, now that all the choices had been taken away.

o0o

"Palta, pay attention." Kira noticed a little of the mush had dribbled down the side of the bowl. She moved the bowl out of the way and cleaned it off, putting on the cover and adding it to the tray. Not looking at the slashie, she continued her work more carefully and the slashie ignored her again.

It had been four days since Kira Neres had ceased to exist. Filling bowls with a mixture of bubbling mush and cooked fruits, the time didn't feel real. Everyone did a job, and she'd noted the new ones, the ones they weren't sure of, were kept busy in ways they were easy to watch. But she'd been scooping out breakfast bowls for hours, and her mind was wandering. She understood they were watching, deciding who they might trust and who would require further attention. She must not be a part of the second group. The Dominion had unintentionally destroyed the provence's records where she was claiming to be from, but she was sure it wouldn't hold up officially without them. It was a carefully chosen name, common in the area she claimed, and somehow Odo knew the Domininion had wiped out the central record building early on. But Palta would have been one of the survivors of an example, and she quickly put all her concentration into pleasing him as one would. Eventually she'd take on a different name, but for now she had to be believed.

Or, she might be trapped forever as Palta Rasta, if they decided she wasn't lying. None of the paperwork had been questioned. But she assumed they would do the research while they held them in the back area of the camp. Or they might just decide to believe her.

There were two worlds in the camp. The front was small rows of cramped living quarters, but they could come and go on their free time. There was a gate between that section and the one where she'd been taken. Freedom was past that gate. On the other side, every moment was watched and controlled. She didn't know how long it would take before she walked through, only that she had to pass or it could lead to disaster.

Odo rested in his rocks, but she was on her own now. When a good time came to leave, she understood she must, even if she had to leave him behind. He was so sick that he would die, but she would live. She could never be Kira Neres, but hoped not to end up as Palta Rasta.

The soldiers ran things on a strict schedule, and there were plenty of rules. Palta would obey all of them or she would not be alive. The mindless task of filling bowls was only reminding her of what awaited her in life. She would never be able to be herself, or perhaps until something changed, stay too long any one place. The soldiers would be interested in Kira Neres. If Narven had told that she was with a sick changeling, they'd be even more interested.

She missed him. He was company. Even ill and dying, resting in his bucket, she missed him the last nights. She talked to him, knowing he was listening. But now the room was too crowded and noisy. Each had a cot and it was clean and they were full, anyone sick receiving treatment. It could be so much worse. But the noise got on her nerves, and after the first exhausting night, it was hard to sleep. There were older memories from childhood and later, when such camps hadn't been so kind. She had never been locked in one after she had run, but had seen her mother disappear before that.

Trapped in their impersonal world, the sobering reality was finally hitting her that her only chance at survival was to disappear, and she would never know if she'd vanished well enough.

Another cart arrived, and she went back to measuring and told herself it would somehow be worth it to survive.

o0o

Tarlan was writing on the padd when they came, later than normal. It had been two weeks since his first meeting with the Vorta, and the hasparat, and he was completely wrapped up in his dreams of where the Idea might lead him. They had brought his breakfast earlier, and he had eaten without really noticing it. He hadn't even taken in the delay, oblivious to everything but the padd.

They had given it to him two days before, and it made things so much easier. His alien friends had left the previous day, to everyone's mutual regret. He missed them, but had been assured they would return. In the meantime he had the padd and all the new ideas in his head.

When they came, he was surprised but not alarmed. When he was led past the corridor he usually met with the aliens he was even more curious.

This one led him to a new part of the ship. He followed the guards to what appeared to be an ordinary room, with a desk and several normal chairs. Glebaroun was waiting. As Tarlan carefully sat opposite the Vorta, the Jem'Hadar were sent out of the room.

"I've been looking forward to meeting with you," said his violet eyed superior.

Tarlan didn't know what to say. But he noticed how comfortable the chair was. "I have many new ideas to share with my colleges," he said, hoping it wasn't too presumptions.

"Welcome to my office. I want you to feel at home. Please, record every idea. You and the others have made remarkable progress." The Vorta was trying, but small talk wasn't his best talent. Then he caught Tarlan's undivided attention. "I have a proposal for you."

Tarlan still had the padd. It occurred to him he hadn't thanked anyone for it yet. "I believe I didn't thank you for the padd, Sir. It has been most helpful."

"I'm pleased, Mr. Tarlan. I hope my proposal will be as well received." Glebaroun smiled. Jaro knew the smile meant nothing, but he no longer found it intimidating. "In short, in time, we would like to recreate your project, and Cyrus still seems an ideal place to test it. What I am offering you is a position as head of the project."

Jaro was filled with a nervous excitement. Justin should have been sitting there, but he had learned to dream, too. He was astonished and proud that he was good enough to fill his friends rightful place.

Then, before Tarlan could figure out what to say, his satisfaction was suddenly tempered with disappointment.

The Vorta continued. "I wish I could include you in the interim steps, though you will be informed of them."

Jaro listened in an daze, not quite believing it. He willed it to be a dream. How could they exclude him now, especially when his head was filled with newer, better ways to make the project work?

"Is this something you desire?"

"lt would be something of a dream." But, he thought to himself, not as good a dream as he wanted.

Glebaroun smiled again, and Jaro hardly noticed. "I am very pleased. I do wish we could begin sooner, but there are certain problems to be worked out in the process. It must work without your machines. I would include you more directly, however there would be some," he paused, "difficulties. You will remain in contact with the others for now, and I encourage you to continue to do your own research. In the meantime, you must make a place for yourself in your home."

Jaro wished he could help. But the idea of the project being truly portable, working *anywhere*, was a kind of vindication, too. Justin hadn't said much about Vance, except how big his dream was and how much it mattered that it work anywhere it was needed.

He still wanted to share in it. "Will I be able to share my own research, Sir? If I don't know the current state of the project my research could be out of date."

"Please, don't worry," smiled the Vorta. This time it annoyed Jaro. "You will remain a part of the project, and there will be communications between yourself and the others."

Jaro felt a little better. At least he wouldn't completely be left out. "Thank you, Sir. I feel I have much to add."

"Certainly. But you have your home to consider as well. You have your position as head of Agriculture to fill, once the current troubles are over. You did quite well in the time you replaced your friend Mr. Blanchard."

Jaro knew they were using him. If he could live in a world of Ideas, he could live with it. But he'd taken on Justin's post because he had no choice, and now it would be even worse. Now he couldn't ever let on that he didn't want it anymore.

"I shall do my best," he said, hiding the resignation.

Glebaron smiled again. This time it gave Tarlan a chill. He was owned by the Idea, but They would always pull the strings.

"There is another matter. You have a family. Your wife and four children, I believe. You do miss them."

He cherished them, but had forced himself to be philosophical about it. Just like the others, he doubted he'd ever see his lost family again. "I do," he said warily, "but there was to nothing that could be done."

"That was before. When you resume your position on Cyrus, probably later in the year, your family will be joining you."

Jaro was overwhelmed. He had given up ever seeing them again. He had put all his energy and passion into the project so he could live with it. The dream, Justin's dream, now his dream, had gone long past that. To have his wife and children with him could only make it better.

"I will be most grateful," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Good. But rest now. There will be much for you to do."

o0o

Within the week, the deck would again be open. The mossy areas were not fenced, and were being harvested carefully so they continued to grow. He knew everyone else would be happy. But for Miles it was as if he was losing something important.

He had to do an inspection, and his friends, now not in grey but unmarked work clothes, wearing gloves, were waiting. The larger patch behind the hill was still the most productive, and when the others were dry would continue to grow. He had decided not to even ask how they were doing the accounting. But those on the deck would grow little more than they had, and his own needed somewhere to go where they might escape the memories. The blue line and Jem'Hadar remained, but most of it was now fenced, and maybe they could see it as protection. The line sitters served the same purpose, but you couldn't punish a fence.

He and the slashies hadn't exchanged names, but greeted each other as if they had once they'd finished with the carefully business-like area on the upper deck and were out of sight. The patch looked bigger, just above the creek where it was always damp. It was dried and ground into a power, so nobody could tell where it came from, but just the same, he was nervous.

They had noticed. The older one, apparently with some sort of unofficial rank, pulled him aside. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Miles was nervous. He'd noticed how Carl had been watching him since that day. Carl was a loose cannon, and while he had managed to behave, there was the look in his eyes just before he took control. Someday he'd fail and there would be a problem, and Miles was sure he'd seen.

"Carl came in when I was putting together the packet, but real quiet, like he was sneaking. I'm sure he's suspicious. I don't think he saw anything he can describe, but if anything happens, he'd say whatever it took to save his kids."

Miles had been slipping in the amended report for the suits benefit, and further eroding the Vorta's hold with each page. It had made it easier to stand the way he had to cooperate with him, and the increasing number of times he was called. But it must have been working. Glebaroun was always composed, and yet there was a small sense of desperation in his words now. He knew that Miles would do whatever it took to make things better for his own, but would not allow himself to be bought.

"Your Carl is going to be a problem. He's too good at his job to be left out later. Not even by you when your turn comes. But he's not going to say anything. We'll shift the method just in case."

"That's good." But that wasn't what bothered him most, why he needed to ask that day when he could. He tapped the glove, the one covering the marks. "I've had some, some hints, from him that there are plans for me. Not necessarily his. We've gotten some good things from it, but," he stopped, wishing the rest was wrong. "When he goes this game isn't over. I have to have something to believe in, to be a part of if I have to live my life like that. My wife's on Bajor and I can't imagine the way they live. Or maybe I don't want to. I'll have to lie to her too. And I'm guessing when they dispose of the Vorta, we'll see the results of all the work you've been doing." And there was Cary, the way they'd tossed him like garbage, and how it had made him compromise even more of his own. The Vorta and the suits, if they were as bad as it sounded, would be no different. And maybe Cary would die a different way, but they would still kill him. He couldn't keep pretending without something else to give him a reason, like the two men already had. "Is there some reason you can give me to be able stand it?"

He followed the man, who led him to a shaded area, where a profusion of vines were growing, up a trelase and turning the area to shadow. The younger man came up to him, both enveloped in its shade. "You understand now, don't you? It's never really over. There would be no marking, but if you wish, you may ask to become of the Rose."

"I need something past today to fight for," he whispered. It wasn't the first time he'd considered a hint, but if he had to live his life like he was playing the spy in a holonovel, except it was real, it had mean something. "I suppose I should ask exactly what it stands for first."

Miles listened, knowing it would mark him and his family if anyone discovered it, but if there was no one willing to fight, then there was no reason to go on pretending either. He took in a careful breath. "I wish to be a part of the Rose, if you'll let me."

"They call me Denny," said the younger man, the other standing behind him now, looking over the plant. "This is Cale."

The words were brief, out of necessity, and yet he felt as if they were already a part of him. Then, Cale moving off, Denny shifting them to a different area of the vines, he ask a different question. "You are now of the Rose, but you are a soldier too. There is the Rose and then the Red Rose, the one of blood."

He explained. Miles thought of the reports he'd gotten of those returned, and the men held on the hill, most of whom had done nothing but try to stop the others. And how much the Vorta deserved anything he got. But it was evident now he was more and more a puppet on strings, and the others were no better. They'd send his family, but he wanted his children to have something to grow up for, some kind of dreams. "Yes," he said.

It didn't take long. But covering the small wound where they'd taken the blood, he wished they'd trusted him enough before since now he'd be able to sleep at night knowing he belonged to himself again.

o0o

The assigned slashies suddenly becoming very cautious, Odo had moved himself to a new hiding place, a small cavern eroded by the old river underneath a sheath of rock. It was unlikely they'd try to move the rock so he would be shielded well. The simple creature he became to crawl across the floor had cost him, but once he let go and flowed into the open space he would be safe.

They were carefully clearing the rocks from the opening, chewed out by the officer for bringing down a cascade. He guessed the officer didn't trust the crew, especially with the possibility of a rock fall. They were planning on using the old storage area for a its intended purpose, which fit his own intentions perfectly. Until he slid into some container going to the camp, he would lie in his natural state gathering strength.

Sometimes when he slept, he felt the distant pull of his own. But it was distant and weak, like a passing shadow. They had taken their piece of the alpha quadrant. But they had been already paid back in kind. Before he hadn't minded dying. But now, now he was impatient with it. His kind had laid claim to the Gamma quadrant for centuries, but if they died would their subjects turn on each other like those so recently taken had? Like Bajor would have if the Federation hadn't come from the start?

His own kind had already rejected him. He owed them nothing except possibly their own end. Either that or he would be a traitor. In time, he knew, he would forget all but the payback.

Changelings were not that different than solids after all.

The two slashies he knew to have an agenda, likely shared by others from their presumptions, but they were strictly behaving now. The officer did not like to come close, but at times it was required. Odo was sure his inspections were basic at best. It would be unfortunate if he were to be caught in a sudden rock fall.

Somehow, his turn in fortune had given him more strength. It was not just the rest, desperately needed, but the chance and vow that he would make his mark or die trying. Neither life nor death had had a purpose before, but now it did. He would not mind dying if it had had some reason. But then, the slashies would do the same and he hoped the next time they worked the officer was gone and they might talk a little more. If only he could show himself, tell them they were not alone, but he knew that the survivors would only see someone to kill.

In the end, nobody would win, but maybe it would be a little better than it might if the slashies side ended up the victors. He would find a way to get to Kira so he could listen with purpose and she could be more than a slave.

When he fell to dust, there would be a reason to have lived.

End, Legacy Year 2, Part 1, Chapter 13


End file.
